


The fire that froze me

by UnknownGirlClegane



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Bad luck aura on those characters, Beware of some pairings I have in mind, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Comedy, Courtship failure, Dark Comedy, Fighting the Others with uncle Stannis, Future Fic, M/M, Multi, Not Betaed, Post - A Dance With Dragons, Prepare to suffer, Sexual Content, Slow Burn, The Old Gods and the New don't ship SanSan nor does GRRM, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-10
Updated: 2014-05-07
Packaged: 2017-12-28 17:00:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 55,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/994346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UnknownGirlClegane/pseuds/UnknownGirlClegane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sansa has returned to Winterfell with the aid of Sandor Clegane and Jaime Lannister. Now that King Stannis is fighting to retake what is rightfully his, and to protect the kingdom from the growing threat of the Others, she must do her part, and learn that nothing burns like the cold.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Who will be Lord of Deepwood Motte?

Sandor had never been a happy man or a cheerful one, but that day he was particularly displeased with himself and with his life in general. How could he not be? He was standing in front of a wide mirror, and a scarred face was returning his disgusted stare.

He was elegantly dressed in a black and yellow tunic and black breeches - fine, expensive garments. Too fine and refined for the second son of a landed knight, too much like those of a lord... and not at all fitting for the man who was wearing them, a ugly, scarred scoundrel whose bloody reputation among the Lannister always preceeded him.

Sandor knew he wasn't welcome in Winterfell, and did not resent those northerners who eyed him with scorn and obvious distaste.

After all, he was Sandor Clegane. His brother had so much to answer for, he doubted anyone - even the fucking Gods - could remember every corpse, rape and mischief he had left behind in his trail. And aside for him brother, he had his own crimes to answer for. He had killed countless men; always under orders, mayhaps, but Lannister orders.

It did not matter, therefore, that he was changed. It did not matter to those little buggers that he was not his brother, or the Lannister dog, or that he had saved Lady Sansa Stark from bloody Littlefinger. And he was fine with that - didn't much care for what people thought, anyway, and besides, he could not deny what he had done, and he did not wish to.

One could have argued that Jaime Lannister was not half so resented as he was, in spite of his having pushed Brandon Stark from a window, killed the king he had sworn to obey, fucked his sister and fathered the brat who had turned out to be the worst King after Aerys and who had chopped off Lord Eddard Stark's head - but then again, Lannister had a pretty face and a charming smile and he had forlorn his own family to serve the Starks, Winterfell, the North, the cause.

 _And he is not the new Lord of Deepwood Motte_ , Sandor mused to himself gloomily. Jaime Lannister was a guest at Winterfell and he had proved himself to be a fierce warrior, even after leaving a hand behind at Harrenhal. Aye, Rickon Stark - well, his advisors - had not judged it wise to let him have anything but his freedom - neither lands, titles or friends. Jaime didn't seem to care.

"I have sworn to protect a king, or a queen, and here I am. Let Tyrion have Casterly Rock and fuck all the whores he likes", he had said to Sansa Stark, "since we have defied him in both his marriages", he had added, bitterly.

Sandor could not guess why it would be different for himself, the Lannister Dog, the murderer. He was sure that his name had not been spoken to the Lord of Winterfell by his counsellors. _' tis the little Bird's doing, of course. Always courteous and proper, but now she has been taught to chirp like a mockingbird._

_Little Bird._

As soon as her name crossed his mind he froze, and gritted his teeth as her picture surfaced, accompanied by memories. To think of her always made him uncomfortable, and it was a first to him. That a girl should make him so uneasy was annoying. Her ghost was haunting him, and it had since he had brought her back to her beloved Winterfell.

 _She's nothing more than a pretty bird, regardless of the songs she can sing,_  he told himself, but he could not fully believe it. It did not prevent his cock from stiffening, pressing against his breeches, as he thought of her swollen lips, full teats, and auburn hair. _'_

 _I have spent too much time around her, that's all_ ', he said to himself. She was pretty, aye, but he did not care. He needed a good fuck, and he was going to find one as soon as he could. _You're a sick fuck, dog._

Sansa Stark had been almost too kind to him since their journey had ended. She _seemed_ to have forgotten all the terrible things that had happened to her because of him, all the horrible things he had said to her, when he had come to her that night, the Night o the Blackwater... but he knew she had not. And he could still picture her screaming his name, as she raised the great sword above her head...

_She wanted to give me a reward - a gift to her dog, a pat on my head._

She was oddly fond of him, in a girlish sort of way Sandor could not even pretend to understand. For the short period of time he had spent as her sworn shield after their arrival in Winterfell, she had been kind, sweet, always looking at him with eyes full of gratitude and good-will. He still intimidated her, but she sometimes raised her head and looked at him right in the face without flinching.

It had been an easy task for her, to convince her little brother Rickon that there was no harm in having Sandor Clegane as a Stark bannerman and a Lord. It had been meant as a slight to their allies, honeyed under the pretense of a reward for him. None of the lords was to be trusted much, in Sansa's opinion; to let them have another castle, another land, would have been too much.

The Dreadford had been assigned to Brynden Tully, and Karhold, though formally destined to Sansa herself, was now used by Stannis to be near to the Wall. Some other fortresses remained, however, and Deepwood Motter, after the fall of House Glover, had been one of them.

 _There you are now, dog. Never wanted to be a fucking lord, but it looks like you don't have a choice_. That thrice damned brat, Rickon Stark, had laughed heartily when Sandor had declined his offer. "I will be King of the North one day. This is a command, San- Clegane, not an offer. I wish you to be rewarded for your services to my sister, the Lady Stark. And besides", the boy had said, cheerfully, with a vicious smile, "I cannot wait to displease all these liars I'm surrounded with." The boy was quite smart for his age, if a little wild. Skagos had taught him to be strong.

The Little Bird had been there too, clad in a green dress - the one that let her shoulders bare, giving him a good opportunity to look at her neck and admire her. Her hair had been braided and decorated with green ribbons. She was beautiful, but then, the girl always was. She had looked at him, half in hope, half in perturbation, a slight blush on her pale cheeks. And that had settled the matter.

Sandor looked at his reflection once more.

 _I should have never accepted. Seven hells, what the fuck an I doing?_   he thought, feeling a strange kind of rage building inside of him. All that time he had spent on the Quiet Isle had not changed him as much as he might have wanted. His brother was dead now - twice - depriving him of the very cause of his anger, but also leaving an emptiness which...

_Fuck. What am I thinking?_

Sandor had always been a man of action, and proud to be so. He knew that the process of thinking too often lead people to wrong convintions. To him, there was no right or wrong, no lies and no truth. The world was as grey as the eyes with which Sandor watched, unnoticed and unsought, from a corner.

Lord Sandor Clegane of Deepwood Motte. That would be his title after the ceremony, but he hated it. All he wanted was - he did not know it himself, but it didn't matter. Sandor Clegane was not a deserving man, much less a lucky one. He never got what he wanted.

 

"Not the white dress, surely" Randa said, vehemently. "The blue one, I say. It suits you and matches with your eyes. You know how beautiful your eyes are, my sweetest Sansa"

"The blue one is too tight" Sansa said. "I have trouble breathing. Besides, it is a perfectly indifferent matter to me, whether I will be pretty or not. It will not be a very mundane occasion"

"Therefore, everyone will be bored, and will seek some comfort and amusement looking at the ladies - and you are the prettiest. Do you not want to be pretty?" Randa teased her.

Sansa blushed, feeling conscious but now knowing about what. "Of course I would want to look fine. As the Lady of Winterfell, isn't it my duty to please?". That explanation sounded lame to her own years, and Randa laughed. "Aye, and a very grievous duty it is, isn't it?".

Sansa smiled too. "Still, the white dress will do, I think"

"For going to the Godswood? It would be a shocking waste of Lysenian silk, if you ask me. Such a nice fabric, and your maid sewed a very pretty dress out of it, though a little too chaste in my humble opinion"

That argument had a certain weight, she could not deny it. "Very good then. But the blue dress is not appropriate, and besides, the fabric is too light. I will catch a cold"

"Why don't you put the yellow one on then? Cleagane will wear black and yellow"

Sansa laughed, nervously. "I cannot wear his colours. It would look queer" she argued, but she caught herself wondering whether he would like her in yellow. What would he think of her? _He would tease me for my nonsense and tell me not to behave as in my songs, of course. He is always so displeasing when I try to be nice_ , she thought. Still perhaps he would be pleased with her, knowing that she had tried to be pretty for him, and would give her a gruff compliment disguised as mockery.

"These are things men like, though" Randa said. "Not even the fiercesome Hound would be indifferent to a maiden clad in his colours"

"He hates courtsies" Sansa remarked, shaking her head, "and besides, I am not scheming to impress him"

"Aren't you, really? Perhaps you should" Randa said, her lips stretching in an even bigger smile.

Sansa looked at her, shocked to hear such am insinuation. "How did such a thing first come into your head?" she cried. "To encourage one who is so much below me would only be cruel, while he - he has been very kind to me".

As she spoke she endeavoured to keep her voice calm and indifferent. The Hound had not only been kind to her - he had been her friend and preserver, had rescued her, had taken her home. He and Jaime Lannister had snatched her from Littlefinger's claws, and they had risked their lives countless times to protect her, even knowing there could be no reward for them.

_I thought they were all dead. Bran and Rickon and Arya and Jon, I thought they had all left me._

Yet they had stayed.

They were there when she first heard of Jon's death, when she thought even her last brother had disappeared.

They were there when Littlefinger had sent Lyn Colbray and his men to take her back.

They were there when Robert Strong had appeared, a black giant born from fear, hate, death.

 _Why are you sad now, you silly girl?_ She thought, feeling an unwelcome lump in her throat. _This is a happy day. It was you who persuaded Rickon to give Clegane a lordship. He deserves it._

"What a little prudish thing you are, Sansa" Randa smiled. "Men will like you all the better for it, you know - it lets them think they are the predator, not the prey". She patted her cheek, gazing at her fondly. "I was merely suggesting you might find a great pleasure with him. After all, I'm sure he at least likes you very much, and he would be glad to be your lover"

Sansa blushed and tried to picture the Hound bowing towards her, kissing her - not like that time, but slowly, gently. To imagine it was enough to make her uneasy, and she could not - would not dwell upon it. The Blackwater night was still fixed in her mind - green emeralds of fire exploding in the sky, cries of pain and horror reaching the Red Keep, and his cruel mouth pressed on her.

Alayne Stone had recalled that many times, trying to escape the truth of her condition, but when she had seen Sandor Clegane again she had almost forgotten that kiss at all, or the fear she had felt when he had threatened her with the knife.

A long time ago it had been, and Sandor Clegane had never touched her improperly again. Rude and mocking he had been, but she had felt safe all the same, and for that she was grateful.

_He is not the Hound anymore, but he is still a killer. He is no knight. How could I love a man like him?_

No, she could not, and she was sure - she was quite sure Clegane must feel the same. He had told her she was pretty once or twice, when in his liquours, but she knew she was. Mayhaps he might look at her with some partiality and find her good to look at, but she had never seen love in his eyes.

"Neither I nor Sandor Clegane would dream of such a thing. He is coarse and ugly, and besides, he thinks I'm still a child" she shook her head. "And you forget I am a maiden still"

"Well, maiden or not, you'd still be a good catch for any big lord" Randa said, and she shrugged in a very unladylike way. "So you are quite determined not to have him"

"Quite so" Sansa said, firmly. She felt she had to convince her friend of it now, before she could take a fancy on that idea. It would be dangerous to have her believe it, for Randa was always very bold and forward, and used to have her own way. _If she thinks I love him, she'll try to bring us together, one way or the other._

"I see" Randa said, nodding. She seemed persuaded, which pleased Sansa very much. "Well then-" she seemed to entertain another thought, then, because she stopped mid-sentence and her expression changed many times, so quickly that Sansa could not read though them.

"So" Randa Royce said, after a while. "Have you decided what you are going to wear?"

Sansa was relieved to find her friend did not wish to push the matter further. "I think you are right - the white gown would not do for the Godswood. The purple one would be more appropriate"

"Very much so" Randa said, even though the purple dress was too chaste to be one of her favourites. "Excellent choice, my dear. Will you keep your hair down?"

"I don't think so. I think I'll have Tansy do my hair - nothing too much, something in the northern fashion" she said, lightly.

"You know, Sansa, perhaps I should try to wear it like that too" Randa said, thoughtfully. "I wonder if it would suit me or not"

"I told you it would" Sansa laughed. "But you always refused to try". Randa's mood and decisions changed almost daily, Sansa knew, and so abruptly she was always taken aback by it.

Randa laughed too. "What am I supposed to do with you, Sansa? I shouldn't have a friend with such a good memory - it becomes too easy for you to shame me"

"You are sharp-tongued enough to prevent me from winning any oral dispute that may arise between us" Sansa remarked. "Therefore, it is I that should beware of you"

"Aye, and tonight every other woman will beware of us both" Randa said, raising from her seat and collecting her needlework from the small table, "for we will outshine them in both beauty and charm"

Giggling, they parted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you like this. ;)


	2. A feast for hounds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An important ceremony takes place in Winterfell.

Rickon could not help the sigh that escaped him when the servants began to undress him. It was a magnificent day. Spring had touched the North at last, but it was the feeblest hint of it and nothing more. The earth was still wearing snow as an armour against the timid rays of the sun, and the nights were still cold, windy and bitter - yet the sky was no longer shrouded in clouds and grey mist, the woods were rich of beasts again, and the scent of life could not be ignored.

  
All he wanted was to run outside - to the Godswood, perhaps, to dive in the hot pools under the Weirwood's silent gaze; or perhaps to the village and hills nearby, riding his new pony, Shaggydog following.

  
To the Godswood he would go that day, but it would not be for sport or amusement; he would have to stand straight and pretend not to be bored and listen to Maester Yvin as he gave one of his long speeches.

  
"It is not fair. Sansa is the Lady of Winterfell until I come of age - why can't she take my place and give Sandor his Lordship?"

  
No, it was not fair. He would have to keep quiet and put on a lordly face, and not skratch himself, not even if his clothes were stingy and itched. He knew they would itch - they always did. They were solemn garments made from the finest linen, but they itched all the same.

  
"Here, my lord" Bess said, as he helped him struggle with the laces of his grey and silver tunics. "This colour suits you"

  
Rickon did not bother to answer her, and tapped on the floor with his feet, impatiently. "Where is Gendry? He promised me I could wear my sword today"

  
"'tis nothing more than a dagger, m'lord". Rickon turned towards the door. Gendry was there, smiling broadly, something long and thin in his hands. "I have  
finished it on time, as I promised you"

  
Rickon could hardly contain his excitement, but he knew that Sansa would not suffer him to behave like a child. He forced himself to contain his smile into proper limits and dismissed Bess with all the kind benevolence his sister insisted him for having.

  
Finally alone with Gendry, he then allowed his grin to broaden. "Where is it? Show it to me" he squeaked impatiently, and Gendry laughed in seeing him so excited. "Here it is, my lord. I wrapped it in a cloth lest it should be seen by Maester Yrvin".

  
That was why Rickon liked the boy so much: he was cheerful and unaffected. It had been only a month since he had come out of nowhere. He was an excellent smith, and he was very good at swinging a sword around. Everybody thought well of him, he thought, but Sansa. She eyed him suspiciously, almost as if she was afraid of him.

  
"He has been here half an hour ago. He wanted me to lock Shaggydog in the crypts. He said he was afraid he would spoil the ceremony somehow"

  
"And what did you tell him?" asked Gendry as he handed a thin, long package to Rickon, carefully. Rickon took it and wondered at how light it seemed.

  
"That it was fine, but only if he would keep him company".

  
Gendry erupted in a roaring laugh. Everybody knew that Maester Yrvin hated Shaggy-dog. The maester of the Citadel was from Dorne, and he was afraid of the great breasts of the north. Shaggydog had sensed it too, and one of its favourite games whas to chase him around the castle, barking and howling and pulling his tunic in play.

  
Rickon started to undo the wrapping, slowly. The dagger came out and fell on his lap with a soft sound of metal and leather. The sheath was very plain leather, but the dagger itself was a masterpiece, as he ascertained unsheathing it.

  
"It is long for a dagger, but it is no sword. Lannister would kill me if I gave you a sword, and I should like to keep my head on my shoulders for a little longer"

  
"He wouldn't. I would bid him not to"

  
"Mayhaps his sword would be quicker than your tongue" Gendry jested. "What do you think of it, my lord?"

  
"Perfect. It has just the right size for my arm" Rickon said. He got on his feet and ran to hug him. They laughed again. "Careful with that dagger. I might not need to wait for Lannister to chop my balls off"

  
Rickon nodded and fastened the dagger to his belt, suddenly feeling very lordly, and ran to admire himself in the mirror. He was satisfied. He knew that, being a seven-year-old child, no one was inclined to take him seriously. Being the Lord of Winterfell was nothing funny.

  
"May I ask one question, my lord?"

  
"My name is Rickon" the child said, annoyed. "I told you to call me Rickon"

  
A small smile passed on Gendry's lips, but it disappeared in a heartbeat. "Rickon, I was wondering... Why are you going to give Clegane a lordship?"

  
Rickon was surprised. He knew that Sandor Clegane was not loved, but Gendry had always been kind to everybody. Why is it that they hate him so? To Rickon  
it was a mistery. He was scary to look at the beginning, but he hardly noticed the awful scars that covered his face now. He was a strong and fearless warrior, and he had saved his sister. Rickon had taken a liking to him, and often followed him or studied him in amazement.

  
"Why not? He served us well. He protected us. He is amazing with his sword, Gendry, have you seen him?" Sandor had sparred with Rickon more than once, letting the boy waver his wooden sword at him ineffectively.

  
"His leg is stiff now. He isn't quick as they say he was" Gendry said. "But even if he is a good warrior, he still is a cruel man"

  
Rickon pouted. "He is not wicked as you all think him"

  
Gendry seemed inclined to say something more, but he restrained himself. "Well, never mind. I believe I should go, before Master Yrvin comes and threatens me with his stick" he said, myrthfully.

  
Rickon laughed. "I'll chop his stick in two with my dagger if he tries to"

 

  
The Godswood was crowded with unhappy northerners, all struggling to look unconcerned with the occasion. Sansa was standing by the Weirwood, her grey cloak elegantly draped on her shoulders. She had spent the last two hours with Tansy and Bess. The latter had combed her hair in the northern fashion, soberly, but Tansy had struggled to make her prettier by painting her lips of red and her eyelids of purple to match the dress, paling her cheeks with moondust, and squeezing her at last into her corset and gowns. She did look pretty enough, she knew.

  
The air was cold and damp, and the smell of rotten leaves that covered the ground and floated on the hot pools was almost overwhelming, although not unpleasant. Every time she was in the Godswood, Sansa had the sensation that she was only one step from Heavens, or Hells. There was something like eternity whispering among the trees. Winterfell had fallen and was being rebuilt, but beyond the gates of the Godswood men and winter both had no power.

  
Rickon was beside her, standing still and grave. She could see that he was trembling under his cloak, but he would have to stand it all - the cold, the boredom, the stares. She had learned a while ago, and she had to thank Sandor Clegane for that.

  
She had much to be graful for, when it came to Sandor Clegane.

  
As if her thoughts had the power of summoning him, he appeared at the gates. 'He is so tall' Sansa thought in seeing him. She knew very well that he was, but sometimes it still surprised her. He was tall and strong enough to scare people with his arch looks. 'How could I want him for a lover?'she thought.

  
The Hound came slowly, accompanied by Podrick Payne who trotted at his side with the desire of being somewhere, no, anywhere else plainly written on his face. He was a shy boy, but very kind and obliging. The crowd had splitted in two, forming a passage for the two men.

  
He was now near enough that Sansa could discern his features, and she saw that his grey eyes were fixed on her. She felt very conscious of her attire all of a sudden; he stared at her frequently enough, and she had never been able to tell what thoughts were hiding behind these hazel eyes.

  
His eyes did not wander away when caught. Sandor Clegane looked at her as he approached the small group by the Godswood. Sansa knew she was blushing slightly, but she thought it would be hard to tell it was for his gaze and not for the cold.

  
Maester Yrvin cleared his throat discreetly when Sandor stopped, so as to remind Rickon of his duties. The boy took the hint and stepped towards Clegane, who bowed ungraciously and finally looked away from Sansa.

  
"Sandor Clegane" Rickon said, almost shouting. His voice had to reach those who were at the other end of the Godswood, but it sounded awfully high-pitched and very far from lordlike. Still he was trying , for which Sansa was very grateful. Clegane always mocked her for her politeness and elegance, but Sansa had learned to use it ad a shield. "You are now here to pledge your allegiance to Winterfell and to the North, in the presence of the Old Gods". The child spoke slowly but firmly enough, and Sansa felt very proud of him.

  
Sandor Clegane turned his gaze to the Lord of Winterfell, looking like a dog on the very verge of biting the hand who fed him. 'Isn't he happy to become a lord?' she asked herself, but the answer she already knew, and didn't like. Sandor Clegane might be the son of a landed knight, but he was not genteel. He was a soldier, and he was truthful, and didn't want to be a lord in spite of all the advantages.

  
Sansa regretted having spoken in his behalf with the counsellors. She was the Lady of Winterfell until her brother came of age, but she didn't like to remind the lords of it. She was a woman, after all. Cersei had taught her one thing, and one only: a woman needed to be cunning and sly to have power.

  
'You shouldn't have asked. You shouldn't have. He doesn't want to be a lord, and he doesn't care to know it was meant as a reward' she thought gloomily.

  
"In this day, you swear friendship and obedience to your rightful lord. You should know, however, that a vow taken in front of the Old Gods is not to be forsaken. It is a bond that cannot be broken, and the Gods won't forget any slight" Maester Yrvin said, frowning at the man who stood now right in front of  
him. "Say the words"

  
Sandor nodded, his burned mouth twitching in something like disgust, but he dropped on his knee on the silk grey cushion that had been put there for that purpose. It was no ordinary thing to see the Hound kneel, and murmurs came from the audience, but Clegane cast his dark eyes at Sansa again, as if he  
wanted to blame her, and spoke the words in his hard, rough voice. His words were like steel, and his vow sounded like a battle.

  
"I, Sandor Clegane, have come to kneel in front of the Gods of the First Men to pledge my allegiance with a solemn oath. Here I swear perpetual fealty and  
obedience to Lord Rickon of House Stark, lord of Winterfell, ruler of the North, child of the first men. May my blood never stain the snow with cowardice and betrayal; may I shed it willingly if that be my lord's will. For me and my sons and grandsons I swear, to be true and worthy of the honor I receive today. May the Old Gods bless the House Stark and mine, as long as our will are but one"

  
Sansa felt a small limp on her throat, and could not tell why.

  
"Then rise, Lord Sandor Clegane, lord of Deepwood Motte, and become a true child of the North" Rickon said, solemnly.

  
It was Sansa's turn to speak. Rickon wasn't tall enough for the task, so she had taken upon herself to end the ceremony. She took the cloak she had made herself. Tiny wolf figures were sewn in black all around the new symbol of the Clegane House: three dogs in a yellow field, two of them black, and one  
grey.

  
"I see in front of me Sandor of House Clegane, Lord of Deepwood Motte and friend of the North" she said, with a graceful smile. She knew that none of her  
perturbation was visible, and she was happy for it. He was looking at her, but she stood firm. She fastened the cloak around his broad shoulders. The weight he had carried on them... 'I want my husband to have shoulders like these' was what passed through her head before she could check herself. 'But the man I could love does not exist'.

  
Still, she couldn't help but remembering his white cloak, the rough fabric brushing her bare skin, the smell of blood and wine attached to it, and then he was gone, a ghost glowing green disappearing in the shadows once again.

  
"Winterfell hails you and gives you its protection, for now and all the days to come"

  
The audience erupted in a choir of comments, cheers, exclamations. Sandor, who had bent towards Sansa to help her with the cloak, straightened once more and turned to survey the crowd.

  
'I gave him my cloak, and he gave me mine' Sansa thought. 'I have received Tyrion's cloak and Sandor's, but they didn't love me. Nobody loves a lady. That is why Cersei was always so angry, and sad'

 

  
As he waited his turn to congratulate himself with the new Lord of Deepwood Motte, Davos Seaworth recalled what he had heard of the Hound.

  
'The fiercest warrior in the Seven Kingdoms, now that his brother had thankfully quitted this world for another more suitable to his tastes' he remembered one of the knights saying to him with a sneer. Which was enough to explain Davos why his King was so displeased with the choice.

  
It was the first time Davos had the chance to see him. He had heard of him, of course; the man was nothing more than a soldier, the grandson of Castelry Rock's kennelmaster, a bloodthirsty man who carried hideous scars and hated his still worse brother. Not much was known of Sandor Clegane, starting from  
the accident which had disfigured him, but the Cleganes had a bloody aura lingering around them. Davos refused to believe to half the rumors concerning the two brothers, but it was well known at court that it had been Gregor Clegane to murder Elia and her children, the last living Targaryens. Davos was loyal to Stannis, but he had never believed that it had been right to crush the last buds of such an ancient, noble House.

  
'Stannis used to believe it too', he thought, rather bitterly. 'But now the flames of honour are slowly dying unattended. An other fire has burned them, eaten them, as Wildfire ate my boys that night'. How much time had passed since that night? Too short a time, perhaps, to heal the wounds he carried in his chest, although some of that weight had become lighter; 'too much time still, and the faces of my sons are fading away with the remains of my life'

  
He would not give them to the Red God. That night at Blackwater Davos had lost his fingers, but now the memories of his sons were standing with him as a talisman against R'hllor.

  
'Melisandre has taken my son's lives, my Gods, my king. I will not give her my heart' he said to himself, struggling to ignore those dark thoughts. 'I have come here for an other purpose'

  
It had been six months already or even more since he had last been at Winterfell. He had found Rickon Stark at Skagos, and had taken him back to Stannis.  
The boy and the wildling woman, Osha. When Davos had reached Winterfell, Stannis had taken it from Ramsay Bolton's hands, and Sansa Stark had been there,  
too.

  
'Stannis should have let Clegane and Lannister rot in Winterfell's cripts, instead of letting them go'. Sansa Stark had begged the King for mercy, but her pleas alone would not have served the purpose, had not Melisandre interfered.

  
"Sandor Clegane has received R'hllor's judgement and forgiveness. The Lord of Light has plans for him. He has been kissed by fire"

  
"Raped by fire, I'd say" Davos had snorted.

  
"R'hllor's mark is on him' Melisandre had said. "Ser Davos, your heart knows nothing of R'hllor's voice. You refused to hear it long ago, and now your heart is hardened beyond salvation. Your eyes won't be able to deceive you for long. The Dark God has spoken his words of hatred, and the Long Night is coming"

  
"Clegane will be freed, if that is R'hllor's will" Stannis had said, curtly. "But what about Jaime Lannister? I can't risk him escaping again. Lady Sansa is a Lannister, after all."

  
"There is no love between her and her husband, and Tyrion is on his run somewhere in Essos" one of Stannis' lords had said, shrugging. Davis had noticed Melisandre's eyes glistening and a secret shiver had run up his spine. He knew Melisandre had perceived it by her smile.

  
"My King" Davos had said, quickly, "Jaime Lannister has saved the Stark girl and has risked his life for her. He has fulfilled his promise to Lady Stark"

  
"'A Lannister always pays his debts'" had been Stannis' disgusted remark, before ordering his guards to release the two. "Keep an eye on them" he had said.

  
Davos' turn came, and he approached the man calmly. He did not want him to think that the Hand of king Stannis could be afraid of the likes of him.

  
"My lord" he greeted Clegane, stiffly, with a nod meant as a bow. "King Stannis sends you his compliments in this happy day. Allow me to add mine to his" he said. He did not bother to introduce himself, certain that someone must have told him who he was.

  
Clegane smiled mockingly. "Send your king my thanks" he said, but his eyes showed that he couldn't care less about his Lordship, or the king.

  
'He is just like me' Davos thought, feeling those grey eyes piercing him, and a new, weird sympathy growing in his own chest. 'I am no true knight, and he is no true lord. Yet we bow and say some empty courtsies, wondering what in the name of the Seven we are doing'.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! So, I have decided to upload this chapter pretty soon, since there's no point in delaying.  
> I wanted to thank all those who have taken the time to read this small work of mine and have left some feedback too. ;) hope you'll like this chapter too!
> 
> So, this is probably going to be a long fic. I wanted to write something different, so in spite o this chapters this will not be a serious fic. I want to have comedy, humor and drama, so we'll see if I can do it. My goal is to have fun and keep characters in character.
> 
> As you see, there are going to be a lot of POVs in this story, and they will change. I think it is quite interesting to see how other people perceive and react to Sansan, because in the books they all seem pretty oblivious. 
> 
> I had planned to write this starting from Sansa being rescued from the Vale by Sandor and Jaime, but I thought it would be more fun to have POVs and flashback do the trick. Maybe one day I WILL write the prequel, the story is already in my mind.
> 
> The story is set approximately in 301/302 AL. This means that Sansa is 14/15 years old, and Sandor has turned thirty, since he is 15 years her senior. I understand that some people feel quite uneasy about it, since she IS very young, but I am going to stick to book canon, especially in the characters description and characteristics. Of course I love Sophie Turner and Rory McCann (and find the latter smoking hot too) but books and show are NOT the same things.
> 
> So, book canon, meaning you have to believe in Sandor [IS THIS STILL SUPPOSED TO BE A SPOILER FOR SANSAN FANS CAUSE I HONESTLY DOUBT IT BUT WHATEVER] being the Gravedigger in the Quiet Isle.
> 
> Please, feel free to leave a comment asking me for explanations. I will answer whenever it won't determine spoilers for my story. I appreciate it, also because English is not my first language, so, I'm using this as an opportunity to practice my writing skillllllz.
> 
> I promise to upload soon. Until then, bye ;)


	3. Ice claws

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A feast for Sandor, who isn't in the mood.

Sandor was not happy - not at all. The girl was carefully avoiding his glace, focused on her meals and on chirping her usual tunes to the lords at the table. The other lords, he should say, because Sandor Clegane was a lord too, even though he was a displeased one. Why in the name of the Seven was she so embarrassed? She had looked at him back at the Godswood. Sandor had shamelessly gazed upon her, partly to let her know that he knew it was her he had to thank - or curse - for his fucking Lordship.  
Perhaps she had seen the lust in his eyes. Sandor was always careful to hide it, but it was damn hard. She was the prettiest maiden he had ever seen, even more beautiful than Cersei, in a way. She was Jonquil back to life. Another man would have fantasized on becoming her Florian.  
 _You are ugly enough to fit the part_ , he thought, with more bitterness than he had expected. He had long grown accostumed to the sting of pain that accompanied the very knowledge of his own uglyness. His scars were hideous, but he had learned that they could become a weapon. Fear was the greatest weapon of all, the one his brother had mastered the best, even before the Hound had lost Sandor in the red coals of Clegane Keep.  
On Sandor's right side was Elwood Meadows, the lord of Grassfield Keep. He was scarcely more than a boy, and had a boldness in him which went well with his title, and less with his age. He seemed nervous. Sandor could easily guess why, but did not care. He was planning on getting drunk, very drunk.  
"My lord". It took him a while to understand they were addressing him of all people. He turned towards the servant, a plump boy of fifteen with red cheeks and scared eyes. He merely looked at him, waiting, and rejoicing in the way the boy was squirming uncomfortably under his grey eyes.  
"The wine you asked for" the servant shyly said. "Shall I pour it for you?"  
"Leave the flask and go" he growled, and the other did as he was bid, running away as fast as he could.  
What would Elder Brother think of him now? He had endeavoured to soften his rage, at least Sandor had believed it. He had hoped - had thought that saving the Little Bird would have done the trick. He had always wanted to protect her.  
She was talking with Ser William Foxglove, nodding politely as he told her something about Castle Black and its inconveniences. He talked well, his tone polite and respectful, but Sandor did not like the way his eyes wandered on her body. He was forty, maybe more, and he was married, but he looked as if he wanted to fuck her - which was the truth, most likely.  
Struggling to look unconcerned, he turned towards Sansa to see if she had noticed. She had. Littlefinger was a good teacher of characters, and had wanted to teach her more. The girl noticed Sandor looking at her and seemed to grow uneasy. Sandor looked back at his own plate, and poured himself more wine.  
 _She was scared of you, she still is_. That night, when the Blackwater had turned into a green hell of fear, he had sought her. Dead drunk as he was, he had persuaded himself that she would leave with him, but she did not. She had been smart not to. He had threatened her, sick with rage and fear, but also with pain. "I wanted to be her Florian. I wanted to save her like a true knight, but I couldn't" he had told Elder Brother once. He had thought those wounds to be healed by then, had thought time would be enough. Every time he thought of that night, he remembered crying as she sang to him. There was still innocence in her, which made him the more bitter, because he had failed where she had not: he had lost all that was pure and good, and now, as a lord, he had lost the truth too.

Sansa Stark was nervous. How could she not be? Sandor Clegane sat by her side, in one of his foul moods, and already on his way to drunkenness. She wanted to talk to him, but she didn't have the guts to do it, and she was sorry for it. She - she could not say that Sandor Clegane was a man of spirit, or a pleasant one, or one with a talent for conversation, but she had grown accostumed to his blunt honesty and his gruff kindness.  
She could not find a proper way to address him. She spoke to Foxglove and Meadows, she smiled to Ser Davos, she scolded Rickon, she gave orders to the servants, and played the part she knew so well, that of a refined highborn lady - but to Sandor Clegane she said nothing at all.  
At one of the lower tables, three men who bore the Flaming Stag of Stannis Baratheon started a quarrel over a lost bet. They had drunk a great deal, and the efforts of their companions, combined with some cold, severe words from Lord Davos,were enough to bring back peace and to convince them to leave the Hall.  
"I am afraid I have brought a great deal of noise with me" said Lord Davos Seaworth, smiling, as soon as peace had been established again. It was a stretched smile, but Sansa could detect true kindness in the man, a kindness shaken by sorrows and wearied by worries, and yet still warm, burning like a neglected coal in a bed of straw.  
"It is an honour for us to host the king's men" she said, returning the smile. "The North is an hostile place when winter comes, and you are fighting bravely"  
Seaworth's expression darkened, and his eyes seemed to follow the ghost of a memory, an unpleasant one. Was he seeing the White Walkers appearing from the mist, or was it something different?  
"Aye, they are. They are good men - most of them - and loyal. A king could not hope for better soldiers". This did not mean that Stannis did not wish for more, Sansa guessed. He had hoped for more, he was still hoping for more, but the North couldn't afford it. Southern armies where still at the Neck, Freys and Tyrells and Lannisters and the Gods only knew who else. There was an other king to occupy most of their forces with the assistance of Dorne, but war was there.  
 _They don't believe in tales of winter and they don't believe in the Others. They won't - not until Winter reaches them. Then it will be too late_ , Sansa thought. She often wondered if Winterfell was safe enough. Chances where it was not. The Wall was still standing, a spell of ice against a frozen army, but would it last?  _Do_ I  _believe these tales? Stannis has Lightbringer. Melisandre said her Red God will save us, that the King is the one that was promised, but how can we know if he speaks in earnest, if he is a saviour?_  
"Nor could they hope for a better king" Sansa said, readily.  
Ser Davos bowed in acknowledgment at that, and Sansa returned to her pidgeon pie, hoping she would not suffer from any other interruption. She had noticed, however, that Sandor Clegane was looking at her. _He has heard, I'm sure he has._ He did not seem to like it, despite the fact that nothing at all had been said.  
 _He knows why he is here, as I do_. But Sandor Clegane would leave in a week, and she would have to face it on her own, for the Starks had been right in saying that Winter would come, and now it was there.

Jaime Lannister did not mind to be seated at the lower tables. He was highborn and he was a guest, but nobody truly trusted him. Truth was, it was nothing he hadn't faced before. He was the Kingslayer and the Oathbreaker, but at least he had saved Sansa Stark, and for that they ought to thank him.  
From time to time, he would look at the Lady of Winterfell, looking for a glimpse of truth from behind her mask of politeness. He would stare at the Hound too, enjoying the way he uneasily tried to get through dinner without being noticed by anybody.  
He quite liked Clegane. He had known him for years, at King's Landing. Cersei had deemed fit for him to guard Joffrey, and he had proved to be apt for the task. Jaime had sparred with him often enough, had known him as intimately as his hateful, mocking nature would allow. He had never noticed his interest for Sansa Stark, then. It had been on their escape from the Eyre that he had, and he had to admit it was pretty noticeable too.  
The way he looked at her, the way he bestowed on her his gruff gentleness, his chivalrous gestures reminded Jaime of what Cersei had once been to him. How strange it all seemed for was now. _I used to believe my love for Cersei was the best part of myself. I felt proud of it, I felt above anyone else, as if love could give my blood a purer shade of nobility - but we all share the same feelings - dogs and lions, birds and wolves, in the end we all for for love, and it is never the best part of ourselves_ , he mused to himself.  
"What is it, my lord?" asked Miranda Royce. "Are you mourning the loss of your place at the great table?"  
Jaime laughed. "Not very much. The stench of onions would prevent me from enjoying my pie, and for that particular reason, I will choose not to resent Lady Stark" he replied. The Royce woman had some sense of humor. Jaime had found it out many days before. She was one of the few who treated him with perfect ease and civility.  
Randa laughed too. "Do not judge her too harshly. She did want to have you dine with them, but Maester Yrvin advised her against it, and she thought it best not to have you too close to Seaworth"  
"Wise girl" Jaime said. "Better not remind Stannis of my existence, lest he should change his mind and be prevailed upon chopping off my head. To be deprived of a hand is bad enough already"  
"We would miss your witty tongue, to be sure" Randa said.  
"Why, you're the first to say that" he replied. "How strange, isn't it?"  
The woman laughed again, her eyes shining. Then, she changed subject. "Do you envy him?" she asked, her head nodding towards the main table in explanation.  
"I have been a lord all my life, and richer than Sandor Clegane can ever hope to be. Why would I be jealous?"  
"He is no longer an hostage" Randa said.  
"And am I? I believe they called me 'honourable guest'" Jaime sneered.  
Myranda Royce smiled, a very clever smile. "And I do not doubt you are satisfied with your condition. You do seem to be contented enough, all things considered"  
Jaime considered her words briefly, while pouring himself a discreet amount of ale. He swallowed a gulp of two, before speaking. "You ask a lot of questions, my lady. It would seem that I have been fortunate enough to engage your pity. Pray, to what do I owe such an ardent interest on your part?"  
"I have merely noticed a similarity of tempers between us. We have a talent in making the most of what we have" she replied.  
It was Jaime's turn to laugh. He emptied his goblet of ale and made a satisfied noise with his tongue. "It might turn out to be very true" he said at last.  
She liked the woman very much.

She had not drunk much, but it was still much more than she was accostumed to drink. The wine was strong, but sweet enough to defy the tongue. Sansa thought she had never payed enough attention to this noises and those colours she was seeing now. She had the impression that her skull was turning lighter, perhaps thinner, leaving her mind free to wander about the room at her own leisure.  
She felt merrier too, and not so nervous as she had been.' Indeed, she felt rather bold. She found that she did not fear to turn towards the Hound and speak to him, and she resolved to do it.  
"Are you enjoying your feast, my lord?" she asked him, smiling. To smile seemed so natural now, and also to look at his face. _I have looked at his eyes many times, but never so fearlessly. Perhaps that's why he drinks so much. Perhaps that's what it takes to be brave_.  
He looked at her almost suspiciously. What was he thinking? "Same as all other feasts. Much to eat, and much to drink" he said.  
"You haven't said a word all evening" she went on, determined to be civil and to force him into politeness, if possible.  
"Got nothing to say" he retorted flatly.  
"What about the gifts? Are you not excited to receive them?" Sansa asked. It was a silly question. When had the Hound ever been excited about anything, besides drinking, riding, killing and - and - well, looking hideous and scary?  
He laughed, a most unpleasant sound to hear, devoid of any merryment. "As they are of giving them to an old dog like myself"  
"I am happy to give you mine" Sansa said, offended.  
"How could I doubt it? Pretty little bird chirping pretty little tunes to please her pet dog" he snorted.  
That she wasn't a bird anymore, was known by them both. When Alayne had died, some pieces of Sansa Stark had remained in her grip, shards of past sorrows and of past innocence. Her courtsies she had not abandoned, though, and he could not forgive her for it, or so it seemed to her.  
Wine, still, had had another prodigious effect on her tongue. "To please you? It would be easier for Jaime to grow another hand" she replied, saucily, turning towards Lady Tallhart and beginning an easy conversation with her about Myrish lace.  
Cakes were brought out and laid on the cloth before he spoke to her again, and by then, Sansa had managed to swallow two more cups of wine, and felt them working their spell on her senses. It felt good, but she resolved not to drink another drop of it, lest she should end up drunk. She was tipsy already, but that she figured she could manage.  
"Are you drunk?".  
Sansa looked at him in contempt. "It is hardly a question to be asked to a lady" she said.  
"Bugger that shit. It is my duty to know"  
"It is no longer your duty to look after me. I can manage fine by myself".  
"You like to play games, don't you, lass? You were not sorry for my protection all those times I killed for you" he growled. His gaze was dark and hot enough, and she would once have been afraid of him. That was, however, no longer the case.  
"You did not talk to me so spitefully that time when I stabbed your brother for you" she hissed back, low enough that no line may hear her words. She stood up and excused herself politely to her neighbours. She needed some fresh air.  
She skilled outside one of the window doors, stepping outside in the airy balcony. There was a guard standing there in the cold, shivering slightly. The floor was covered in snow. She shivered too at the cold.  
"My lady" the man said, recognising her.  
She knew his name. "Mathon, is that it?"  
"Yes, my lady" he stammered.  
"I would like to stay here for a while. You may go inside and join the feast"  
He hesitated. "This side should be guarded, my lady. If someone was to try to get inside..."  
"I'll stay with her" a familiar voice said, making them both start. Sandor Clegane was standing there, frowning at her. She felt her pulse quickening. Why did he have to come? Wasn't he tired to vex her?  
"My lord" Mathon started.  
"Do as you were bid. As soon as we come back inside, send someone to take your place. You have been out too long" Clegane commanded, and the poor soldier followed his advice and disappeared quickly.  
Sansa said nothing. She turned his back to him, knowing he wanted her to look at him, and looked at the dark sky instead.  
She almost expected him to snap at her, to be angry for her earlier remarks. Instead, se felt a sudden weight on her shoulders, as he gave her his cloak - the very cloak she had sewed and embroidered for his ceremony. "Here, girl. You are cold"  
She thanked him with a stiff bow, not wanting to speak to him and express her gratitude. He would only mock her if she did, so why bother? _Why has he come? We will be missed. This is not proper._  
"Why did you follow me?" she asked him haughtily, as soon as Mathon had gone out of sight. Her lips were curled in displeasure, making her look more like her mother than she had ever been. "You forget your place, but I'll have you know - I will not tolerate any further offence".  
"Little bird's got claws of ice, I see" he said, not in the least impressed by her cold countenance. "I came to look after you, my lady" he perused, spitting her title out like a drop of venom, "you have drunk too much of your own good wine".  
Sansa felt a rush of new irritation. She had told him she didn't need his help, but he didn't seem to care. He never cared for what she said. "I wonder that you of all people should scold me for my drinking habits" she frowned, indignantly.  
"Aye, it is no secret that I am an old drunken dog. I hardly care to look the perfect lady" he said.  
"Of course you don't. You strive to be cross and disagreable to everyone, in every possible occasion" she cried, stomping her feet on the floor. "From the day we set foot in Winterfell you have done anything you could to be cruel and fearsome and wicked, as if you could not stand the very thought of someone liking you, even by mistake"  
She had spoken in earnest, not caring about either his feelings or his reaction. She saw his eyes gleaming with new, animal fury, his scarred face twitching and twisting into an hideous mask of painful hatred. He grasped her by the arm, so tight she felt a bitter sting of pain, but she could not move.  
"You listen, girl - Look at me!" he snarled, for she had let her eyes wander away from his face in pain, as his fingers rigged into her soft flesh like daggers. "I am no dog to be kicked or petted at leisure, not even by you". He tightened his grasp, and Sansa held her breath not to cry out in pain, as he pulled her closer. "You think I care for that bloody lordship? Well, I don't give a fuck about it. You should have known better, but you never learn, do you?"  
Sansa slapped him in the face. She was not afraid. She knew he would not hurt her - not really. He had meant to scare her, to let out the anger that had been boiling in him since the end of their journey to Winterfell, but she was not Joffrey's plaything, she was not Alayne Stone, she was Lady Sansa Stark. Sandor Clegane would need to learn that.  
He looked at her in utter disbelief, releasing her. Sansa took one, single step backwards, and raised her chin high in pride. "I am Sansa Stark, Lady of Winterfell, blood of the first men. You won't hurt me, and if you try it again, I will have you killed".  
Her words sounded empty to her own hear, her voice shaky, as tears welled in her eyes and dropped on her cheeks to the floor. She hardly noticed. Her arm throbbed where he had touched her, a soft, hammering pain. With trembling hands she undid the lace of the cloak he had given her and threw it by his feet.  
'The rage never left him. He will never cease to be angry and mean'  
He turned around abruptly and hit the cold wall with him fist, roaring. He was gone the moment after, leaving the cloak in a black and gold bundle on the floor, surrounded by snow. She kicked it viciously aside.  
Sansa rubbed away her tears and struggled to compose herself again. On one thing Clegane was right: she WAS a proper lady, and so expert in the art of deceit that it took her no time to manage a convincing smile. "A lady should not be seen crying". She could almost hear septa Mordane saying those words, but Septa Mordane was dead, her mother and father were dead, and she was now all alone.  
When she joined the feast again, Sandor was nowhere to be seen, but they were waiting for her. She was expected to open the dances, and she did it with the outmost grace, and she danced, and smiled, and laughed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you like this ;)


	4. Worshippers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are different kinds of worshippers.

«Are you positively sure that you are all right, my dear?». Randa’s voice echoed in her head like the remnants of a vivid dream. It took it some time to penetrate the mist hovering  on Sansa’s mind. The girl blinked and then blushed, both startled and ashamed to be caught in a daydream.

«Oh, yes! I am very well, Myranda, forgive me» she said, looking at her friend in dismay. «I am merely – I have not slept very much, I am afraid».

The two women were breaking their fast together in Sansa’s small parlour. It was to be their last time together for a while. Randa was going north with Stannis’ men, heading to the Dreadfort. There she was to settle some small business for her friend, who could not leave Rickon and did not trust anyone else for it. It would take Randa some time to reach the Fort, and since she could not think of travelling unattended she was to wait for ser Richard Horpe and his men heading to the Neck in a month or so to come back.

Sansa was the one who had persuaded her to go, but she regretted it already – not for Randa’s sake, but for her own. With Randa would leave most of the lordlings, the soldiers, even the ladies, and she would have to stay home.

Much as she loved Winterfell, much as she had wanted to return home, she knew she would feel lonely. There was no one but Randa she could talk to. Jaime Lannister would protect her, but they were not friends, nor could they ever hope to be. She felt no lingering hate towards him, but too many shadows danced between them, too much past. Rickon was her brother – her only brother, with Jon – but he was still a small boy, innocent, happy, unspoiled by worries and fears. There was no one else, no one with whom she had more than a civil acquaintance. No one but…

«Not surprising, perhaps, after the copious amount of wine you managed to swallow last night. It is a surprise you did not pass out drunk like your good friend  Clegane usually does. You did well». Randa smiled her saucy smile, eyes twinkling in amusement while she recalled it. «And I would never have guessed that under all those courtsies you could hide such a great amount of coquetry. You have made me proud».

«Oh, Randa, how can you say so!» Sansa shook her head, auburn curls moving around her head. «I shouldn’t have drunk so much. I have behaved – not like a lady. I hope my guests were not disgusted with me. What must they think?».

«I’ll tell you what they think. They think that you are the most beautiful, the most exquisite, the most bewitching creature they have ever seen» her friend said, good-naturedly. «I have heard William Foxglove calling you a “charming siren”, and I remember Lord Elwood Meadows telling him that he would not mind it if you were the Queen of the Night, for he should then gladly take the black”. There, what do you think? Men always think they know how to flatter us, don’t they? Would that they should tell me such a thing, for then I might laugh openly, without pretending not to hear».

«They were nice to say so» Lady Sansa said, looking at her with reproach in her blue eyes, but Randa waved that remark away with a disgusted snort. «I’m sure they knew I would tell you. Ten to one they hope I do, so that they can sense the ground before making their move». She patted Sansa’s cheek, affectionately. «I don’t blame them. You are a beauty, Sansa, and last night you were a moving portrait of the Maid».

«You are very beautiful too, Randa».

«Aye, but I am nothing compared to you. Would that I had your hair» the woman sighed, twisting a lock of her own in disgust. «Mine are so very plain».

But Sansa was thinking of something else. _If I am a beauty, then why is it that no one loves me?_. She had asked him once, as they travelled through the Neck. _He told me they would, that they would love me, but he doesn’t care for me himself. Insufferable man!._

Had someone found the cloak she had left there in the snow? She hoped they would, for then they would certainly think him ungrateful for throwing away such a precious gift, a cloak sewn by the Lady of Winterfell herself. _It will serve him right. I hope he leaves soon,  I don’t want to see him. If I had known how he was going to treat me, I wouldn’t have given him that gift._ Had he found it?

 _I hope he hasn’t. Perhaps he has not. Even if he has, he will leave soon enough, so I won’t have to stand his hideous face any longer_. Although, if she was to be honest to himself, she would have liked it better if he had stayed, if he had not been so cruel. Then, they could be friends, he would return in a day or two, and she would not be so very alone.

«Sansa?».

Sansa turned to her companion, mortified. «I am sorry, Randa. I have been very inattentive to you today, and you leave tomorrow». She managed a tiny smile. «What were you saying?».

Randa looked at her, a strange glance in her eyes. «Is something worrying you, my dear? You don’t quite look like yourself».

«No. I was – I wonder if the servants have cleaned up the Hall by now. I have petitioners this afternoon».

Randa seemed thoughtful. «Yes, the petitioners. I was wondering, my dear… will Lord Davos be there while you hear them?».

«I can hardly shut him out» the girl said, with a wry smile. «He is the King’s Hand. Why would I, anyway? He is welcome, as is anyone».

Randa put down her needlework to look at her, very serious. «What do you think of him?».

Sansa sighed. «He seems a good, honest man».

«He was a smuggler».

«A good, honest smuggler then. What does it matter? I see no harm coming from him».

«He comes not for pleasure – nor for Sandor Clegane. He is here because his king asked him to».

«His king is also our king» Sansa corrected her, carefully. «But you are right. I have no doubt that his presence here has other purposes than – than Clegane’s lordship». She drew a slow breath. She knew she could trust Randa, but that did not mean she was not conscious of the danger of speaking aloud her doubts.  «Stannis fears me. He fears I might decide to crown myself Queen of the North, as Robb did before me. he knows the North would fight for me, if I did».

«Bah, Stannis and his issues with women!». Randa was disgusted. «But do you _want_ to be Queen?».

«No, but Stannis doesn’t know that. He has many reasons to doubt my loyalty. My father he knew to be a man of honor, but Robb was Stannis’ enemy, and I – I not only married a Lannister, but I keep another one as a pet here».

Randa hesitated. Something like fear passed in her eyes. «Do you believe him?». She paused. «Those tales of Others, and dragons, and the Gods only know what else… do you believe  them?».

«I don’t know» Sansa whispered, her fingers trembling slightly in her lap. «No one has seen them but a few men of the Nightwatch. The wildlings are running from something dark, the dead come back to life, and Southrons are marching North. I am afraid of all this. And then there is the Red Priestess. Her God of Fire, and her talks of shadows...». Sansa shivered.

«I heard she has gone».

«Stannis sent me a letter. Davos gave it to me. He says that she has left on a dangerous task... to please her God, we may assume, but where she is gone, what this mission is, no one knows, not even Stannis himself».

«I should not care much if she did not return. I do not mind your Old Gods, with all these trees and quiet Godswoods, but this Rolrr, or what is name is - it gives me chills every time».

Sansa could hardly disagree, and there was something else she had seen, during the last visit of the King. Davos Seaworth looked at the priestess with disgust and even hatred, and dread.

 _The Hand of the King is not a worshipper of the God of Light. Does Stannis know?_. She thought he must. In both cases, it might turn out to be useful to them.

«I saw you talking to Jaime Lannister» she said, to change subject. "How did you find him? Was he angry to be left out of the upper table?».

«He did not mind it that much, or so he assured me.  I confess that I like the fellow exceedingly, and he is not so very proud and disagreeable after all».

«He has been very kind and attentive to me during our travel» she said. «I like him too. I - don't quite understand why. He has hurt Bran, he has done a great deal of harm to my family, and yet, he -» she pondered it for a while. «Well, he has done it for love. I understand him». She wondered what Sandor Clegane would say to that.

Randa smiled. «Yes, all for love. You know I am not romantic, Sansa, but it is good to hear that there might be true love somewhere in the world. Not much, not often, but it is better than nothing».

«Let us hope to find love, then» Sansa laughed.

«Let us hope it to be also a suitable match, lest we should disgrace ourselves in the union. And I wouldn't mind it if my love turned out to be handsome as well» Randa rallied in return.

 

Sandor Clegane had gone to bed piss-drunk, and woke up to welcome all the consequences of it. He felt like his head had been broken in halves by Robert's hammer, and before he could rise from bed he had already rolled on his side to throw up in a small basin by the bed.

It had been some weeks since he had last drunk so much. It was a old habit he had lost living in the Quiet Isle, where there was not a drop of wine to be seen except on holidays. He had learned how to be without wine.

Of course, then he had found the little bird, and had sunk into the old vice as if trying to drown himself into it. Which was the truth.

Aye, he needed wine. He needed many things, and most of them he couldn't have, so wine was the best resource he had against the acute emptiness he had started to feel.

Why had he decided to follow the girl again? What a bloody fool he was. He knew it would only serve to reopen the old wound, but she was - hells, she was Sansa Stark, and he was lost.

 _An old lovesick dog you are,_ he said to himself, _you are a pitiful fool_. Yes, lovesick like a greenboy, and even worse. Sandor had found himself to be restless when he was not around the girl. He had also found out it to get worse and worse as days passed.

Sandor was not fond of romance, had not believed much in love - didn't care much about it. With Sansa Stark, however, it was quite a different thing. He could not be resigned, and yet he could not hope - all he could do was to endure.

He had always been in live with the girl, hadn't he? He had taken it as a whim, a soft spot of his. But Sandor Clegane never lied to himself. No, he had taken a fancy on the girl when he had spoken to her on their way to King's Landing, had lusted for her from the day she flowered and even before that, and he had loved her from the time Sansa Stark had touched his shoulder and told him, "he was no true knight".

And something else had happened last night, when she had slapped him in the face, something even worse, something dangerously like worshipping her.

He rolled between his sheets, groaning, and his arm touched something small, and hard. The wooden knight, the one the little bird had given him, looked back at him innocently. He did not remember having taken him to bed, but there it was, haunting him like the ghost of Gregor had done.

_Nonsensical girl. What a gift to give to her bloody dog._

He had returned to the feast, because he had to, almost hoping that Sansa Stark would accuse him publicly of threatening her. It would have been the end of this mummery - they would throw him into one of Winterfell darkest cells, and go find another fucking lord for Deepwood Motte.

Instead, he had found the girl dancing as cheerful as ever. He had spent the evening drinking in a sullen silence, watching her flirting and laughing prettily.

Then he gifts had been given, that of the lord and lady of Winterfell last: a beautiful greatsword, the hilt shaped like a snarling hound, that Rickon have him ceremoniously while his sister - that beautiful, little sister of his - stood by, her gaze low, her expression unreadable.

Then Sandor had taken his leave, two servants following him with the gifts, and when in his room again, alone, he had seen the small knight standing on the table, watching him in cruel reproach.

He did not remember much after that.

He got up with a sigh. The boy, that Podrick Payne, was surely standing outside his door waiting to hear him stir. He was a good-willed pain in the arse. The day before he had woken Sandor before dawn, to help him dress. Sandor had made sure to dissuade the boy from any future initiative of his own, while giving him his first lesson in obscene curses and swearings.

He stretched, feeling his muscles aching after the long inactivity. He felt another kind of tension in his breeches. Sandor knew it would not disappear as easily as it used to do. It was too long since the last time he had had a woman.

He unlaced his breeches, and took his stiff cock in his hand. His thoughts immediately ran to the little bird. He had dreamed of her, that was why he was so hard. He closed his eyes, focusing on the dream.

Sansa Stark in front of him, unlacing her dress so quickly she was naked all of a sudden. White, soft skin, round hips and full breasts, hair of the color of burned copper, eyes blue as the sky.

He could still feel her small, delicate fingers freeing him from his leathers and small clothes, before taking him in his hands, caressing him,  taking him in her mouth, pink lips circling her cock and sucking it with a willingness almost maddening.

He finished quickly in his hand, a trace of her parfume haunting him from his memories. As always, he felt dirty. He was covered in sweat and shame, and wondered if water could clean him, erase his faults. The faith had not, no matter what Elder Brother had promised him.

He made sure to hide the small wooden knight before barking out loud, «lad!».

The door was slammed open and Pod burst into the room, rather alarmed. «My lord, did you call?».

«How late is it?» Sandor asked.

«It is past mid-day, my lord». the boy stammered.

«Why the fuck did you not wake me?». Sandor growled, only to enjoy once more the sight of his squire almost wetting his breeches in fear. «M-my lord, you had told me-» Pod started, but Sandor cut him off.

«No matter. Go fetch me something to eat. I will break my fast in my room». Podrick ran away to comply, leaving him alone again.

Sandor muttered some curses, with no real conviction. Already he was missing the feeling of belonging to something or someone. He had always have tasks - kill a man, protect the prince, dig a grave, take the bird home. He was a man of action, not one of those bloody lords who had nothing better to do than bow, utter some compliments, and dress nicely. How was he going to spend his time until his departure to Deepwood Motte?

Podrick Payne returned soon enough, a plate of food in his hands. Sandor ate in grim silence, too absorbed in his thoughts to mind or notice the squire waiting for him by his table.

When the second flagon of wine had been emptied and some of the food eaten with scarce convention, Sandor rose from his seat.

«What are your plans for the day, m'lord?» Pod asked, shyly.

Sandor Clegane looked down to him. «I'll go find a good whore, if there's one in the village. Fetch my cloak».

 

Sansa heard the soft knocking of Jaime Lannister at the door, but for a brief moment she did not recognise it. She was used to the heavy hand of the Hound and to his raspy voice telling her to hurry.

With a strange feeling of irritation and regret, she begged Jaime to come in.

«Good morning, Lady Sansa» he said, respectfully. Sansa smiled at him in spite of herself. She could never love him, not after all what had happened to her family because of him, but she felt that she could trust him and forgive him - or try, al the very least.

«Good morning to you, ser Jaime. I trust you have enjoyed the feast. I was sorry that I could not speak to you much, but I have never had a better dance partner than you» she said.

He bowed his head. «Very much, thank you. That little friend of yours, the Royce girl, has kept me good company».

«I am very glad that you have found means to entertain youself. I am sorry that you could not be included in the upper table».

«Do not say so, my lady. You did well» he said, kindly. He offered her his arm, and she accepted it. Together, they left her solar.

Sansa was absorbed in her thoughts. She had spent the morning with Randa, laughing and sewing, but she kept thinking about the night before.

Sansa did not like to be uneasy because of Sandor Clegane. Back in King's Landing, she had used to be afraid of him - she was a maid of twelve, after all, and he a vicious killer with a hideous face, brisk manner and terribly angry eyes.

At the Vale, thinking back of him, she had not been able to forget that he had come to her, to save her - a dark knight in a dark night. She did not regret refusing him, but she started to understand him. Alone as she was, it was easier for her to pity him, to see his rage in a different way.

 _He came for me. He threatened me and yet he wanted to save me_ , Sansa thought. The truth was that Sandor Clegane was a very complicated man, too complicated for her to understand, and she did not know if she ought to hate him. She felt that she could not, not truly, although she should. With all his hate and rage, he had done what he could to help her.

 _He threatened me so many times. He likes to kill, he still does, and he hates me._ Yet his kindness - for there had been times when he had been very kind to her, almost as - in short, it was a very messy business, and one didn't know what to make of it.

 _I will act normally. I won't let him know that I am nervous for his sake_ , she resolved for the tenth time, as she entered the Hall. The lords were all there, and she spotted Sandor Clegane among them, looking exactly as foul-tempered and angry as she should have expected. She went straight to her seat, murmuring words of acknowledgement to some of the lords on her way.

That afternoon there were five cases to examine.

The first one was a common case. Two peasants quarreling about a stolen cow. Sansa she recognized the baker of Wintertown and she asked him why a baker should have need of a cow. He did not answer, and she gave the animal to the other.

The second was a hard one.A girl claimed to have been raped by one of Winterfell's guards. She cried while telling her tale, obviously dismayed that so many should hear it. Sansa turned to Jaime.

«Ser Jaime, you will assist the girl in finding the culprit. He shall be brought to me, and I shall choose his punishment».

Ser Jaime bowed.  «Yes, Lady Stark».

«Crimes of this sort will not be tolerated» she added, and in her voice there was a small, almost imperceptible shade of accuse. Towards whom, it was not clear.

Sansa turned to the girl. «Tyana, is it?».

«Aye, milady».

«How would you like it to be one of my maids?» Sansa asked, sweetly.

 The third was a hedge knight who had served for two years at the Dreadfort, without receiving payment. Sh offered him a place in Winterfell's guard, but he declined, saying that nothing would keep him North for the  world.

The fourth was the longest, and the most boring. Two lords disputing about a certain mill between the two feuds. Sansa had to listen patiently for hours as they debated over every mile of land on the border.

«My decision» she said at last, smiling, «is that the mill should be given to the poorest of the feuds, so that it may help sustaining it during winter».

As she expected, the quarrel was more to be imputed to honor than to necessity. None of the two wanted to be deemed poorer, and it was at last declared that the provents should be equally divided among the two.

The last one was a septon, and as he came closer Sansa felt a dark omen descend in her heart. The man was almost bald, and half-starved, though something in him suggested that he had been a plump, stout man. His robes were ragged and dirty, his face covered with scratches, and he had lost a finger for frostbite.

«Lady Stark». His watery eyes scrutinized her after he had bowed. His voice was that of a preacher, but tired and wary. «I am here to seek justice».

«You will have justice, if it is in my power to procure it for you» said Sansa. With the corner of her eye he had seen Jaime Lannister shifting slightly, and she was alarmed, but she kept her face composed in a quiet expression of benevolence.

«I have come all the way here from the Dreadfort, my lady» the old man said. «I used to run the small sept in the village nearby. Not a great shrine, only a small refuge for those who worship the New Gods». His chipped lips curled in a bitter smile. «They burnt it, my lady. Stannis’ man, bearing the flaming stag on their hearts».

His eyes turned to Lords Davos, burning with a hatred hardly fitting a man of the Faith.

«They claim their Red God is the only true God. They burnt the sept, and would have burnt me as well. I was thrown in a cell to be disposed of at leisure. If I am here, ‘tis for a good soldier, one I had baptized with these old hands». His voice threatened to break, but he went on. «He helped me run, but the cold took him a week ago, on the road. I pray for his soul».

«You should have died as well» spat a soldier, one who stood by ser Davos. Sansa knew him to be a man of the Queen, a fervent worshipper of the red God. «You are an enemy of the only true God – your lies have led many a man astray, so how dare you ask for justice, you filthy scum?».

«He is a Northerner, unlike you» said Maldon Snow, one of Winterfell best swordsman, a hand on the hilt of the sword. «We have our ways here, and you will hold your tongue in the presence of my lady».

«And we are emissaries of the only true King, and children of the only true God» said the queensman, disdainfully. «If I have to hold a tongue, perhaps I will have yours».

«Careful, ser Arcos» said Lord Davos. «You forget yourself. We are guests».

From the way Arcos looked at him, it was plain he did not like the Hand. «This place does not belong to the Starks. Stannis…».

«Winterfell belongs to the North» intervened master Yrvin, much to Sansa’s surprise. «So it was in the past, and so will always be. There must always be a Stark in Winterfell».

«When there is not a Greyjoy around» said Arcos, with a cruel smile.

There was a metallic sound, a sword had been drawn, and silence fell. Sandor Clegane looked at the ser Arcos with rage, and disgust. «Not another word, or I swear I will have your blood» he rasped. The other looked at him with something like fear, and stepped back.

Sansa got up, and everybody’s attention got back to her. «My dear man» she said, calmly, to the septon. «Your tale has moved me. You have suffered greatly, and Winterfell» she paused, «has always been a friend to every faith. You will be escorted by maester Yrvin to his chambers, where he will attend to your wounds. We are in need of men of learning».

Then, she turned to Lord Davos. «I know the king as an honorable man. I can’t doubt he will show mercy after you relate this unfortunate tale to him. I entrust this matter entirely to your hands, Lord Seaworth».

Lord Davos cleared his throat. «Of course, Lady Stark».

«Very well, then. You are all free to go».

And slowly, the Hall began to empty, as the audience dispersed whispering and murmuring.

 Sansa sighed in relief. It was over, and although she was not satisfied, immediate danger had been avoided.

«Ser Jaime». she called, in a low voice.

«Yes, Lady Sansa?».

«See that Rickon goes back to his chambers unharmed. I do not like the expression of some of the Queensmen». she whispered, and he nodded. «I believe it would be wise to do so, my lady. I will go at once».

«Stay with him, will you?». she said, almost pleadingly.

«I will. I will call for someone else to escort you». he said. Then, after a moment's pause, «Clegane!» he said aloud.

Sansa felt her heart sink as she heard footsteps nearing, but she did not turn. «What is it, Lannister?» she heard Clegane say. Alarmed, she heard ser Jaime explaining the matter to him, and the moment after, the blond knight was taking his leave from her and hurrying behind Rickon.

She raised from the seat, resolved not to be intimidated. He acknowledged Sandor's presence with a stiff nod of the head. «My lord» she said, civilly

He looked at her in silence. His grey eyes were not lit with fury, but seemed strangely devoid of feeling. «Lady Sansa» he said at last, flatly. And he kept his eyes on her, scrutinizing her, making her even more agitated.

 _Not like this_ , she thought. She wanted to annoy him, not to be afraid.

«My lord» she said again then, with a bright smile, eyelids fluttering. «Will you be so kind as to escort me back to my rooms?».

Anger returned to twist his expression, but finally they moved. Sansa was satisfied. 'He wants me to be afraid of him, he wants me to be angry' She would not please him. Forcing an even more flashing smile on her face, she took his arm.

«I trust that you are well today, my lord?» she asked, merrily. She would be the little chirping bird he took her for.

He gave her a very, very dark look, but did not answer.

She pretended not to notice. «I was rather surprised at the splendor of Ser Foxglove gift. I have rarely seen such an elegant tunic before, and he is known for loving his money too much to part from them» she laughed, a very false laughed. He was tense, she felt, but he did not say a word. He seemed determined to ignore her, which was a first. He was always ready to scold her, mock her or tell her wrong.

«And the book Stannis sent you - a wonderful piece, I hear» she said, and laughed again, «or so I was told by Lord Davos, for...».

He stopped abruptly. The corridor was empty but for them. He had his fist clenched hard, his mouth twitching in disgust. «Enough of this» he said, in a low hiss. It seemed to take him some effort not to yell at her. Sansa stood by him, wide-eyed and surprised by the inner struggle dancing in his eyes. When he spoke again, it was in a chocked voice. «I am not one of your fucking lordlings, girl, and sure as hell I don’t-». he gritted his teeth, to prevent some obscene curse to escape from his lips. «I am leaving tomorrow. You’ll get rid of me soon enough, so spare  me your thrice-damned courtsies, will you?».

Sansa did not know what to say.  She was angry with herself, for she felt tears preparing to fall out, and she did not want to cry, not for Sandor Clegane. She turned away from him and quickened her pace, hoping to reach her chambers soon.

He followed, silently. They passed two or three servants, but no one else. She was vastly glad of it. Her eyes were a little wet, and although Sandor Clegane would not notice or care, some might.

 _I wanted to thank him for interfering, before_. She thought of Ser Arcos. _If only he had been kinder, I could have thanked him. We could have said goodbye as friends._ After what had just happened, she had the greatest need of a friend.

The first tear came down, but her face was hidden from him, so he would not notice. She brushed it away, quickly, and drew her breath. She focused on the rhythmic sound of his boots on the ground, a sound that was familiar to her.

They were approaching her apartments, and Sansa thought of saying goodbye to him. _I am his lady. I could forgive him and smile at him, and why should I care if he laughs at me for it_?. But then she thought of that night, of what he had told her, and she knew she could not. _I won’t forgive him until he asks me to. So I never will. I won’t be able  to thank him, and it’s all his fault._

Sandor Clegane stopped by the door, and Sansa’s heart started racing in her chest.  She knew he wanted to say something about his departure. She knew that, as angry as he could be, he was going to say goodbye to her after all.

But when she turned at Clegane, her eyes were full of tears, and Sansa was ashamed of it. She did not want to be weak, and she did not want to say goodbye. He gazed at her, surprised to see her crying. _Of course he is surprised. He does not understand anything._ She knew he was expecting her to say something, be it goodbye or something angry. Instead, she flew past her door and slammed it right in his face, and since she was sobbing, she did not hear him leave.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments were accidentally deleted from chapters 1 and 2. ;(  
> I hope you like this one ;)


	5. The many-faced Stranger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The dullness after farewell.

Gendry watched Stannis men leave from the East tower. There were thirty of them, and for the umpteenth time he thought it had been fortunate indeed that none of them had recognised him. Lady Stark - Sansa had told him to avoid them as far as it was possible, and for six days he had kept mostly to his forge in Wintertown, scarcely ever setting foot inside the castle.

It was cold. Gendry had spent most of his life in King's Landing,  until the day he had joined Yoren and the crows in their journey to the Wall. The North was far colder than he could have imagined, and snow... It was beautiful to see, but it was everywhere; covering the ground like a shiny blanket and falling from the sky, there was no escaping it. It went into one's eyes and dampened the clothes and the shoes.

_“How could Arya love this place?_ ” he asked himself, but it was a stupid question. Of course she should love it - it was her home, where her family was. And why was he thinking about her, anyway? Most likely she was dead, and even if she still lived, it was nearly impossible that she should get back home on her own. _Although, if there is a girl who can make it on her own on such a journey, that one is Arya Stark_. She was a brave little thing, as different from Sansa as possible.

Sansa Stark was tall, beautiful and ladylike, always smiling, always polite and kind, and sad. Arya was a noisy, fearless, ugly brat who dressed like a boy and could swear better than one, and too damn dumb to be sad.

«You should not be here» a familiar voice said. Gendry started, taken by surprise: he was good at swinging a sword, but he had none of that warrior instinct that Jaime Lannister had.  It was Lannister who stood there, looking at him with severity. The captain of Winterfell guards walked towards him slowly, clearly to intimidate him. Gendry stood firm and stubborn like a bull. Like Arya, he was stupid enough to be brave.

«I know that Lady Sansa is worried» Gendry said. «But I am not sure that the danger is real».

«Then why don't you go after them and find out?» Lannister said, mockingly.«You could still make it on time…. and if the Red Priestess finds it in her heart to sacrifice you to her god, sure as hells I won’t interfere».

«Why are you here, m’lord?» asked Gendry, abruptly. He knew lordlings all but too well – had seen many of them coming and going from the forge, and they were all the same. They all thought themselves superior, always plotting even when unnecessary. It was their nature.

Jaime Lannister went serious again.

«Did you tell her?».

«No». Gendry did his best to sound genuinely offended, but with the unpleasant feeling that Jaime Lannister knew the truth – that he had thought about telling Sansa Stark everything, as painful as it may be to her.

«Are you sure?» the man asked him, with a condescending smirk. «You may have let it slip as you told her of a new anvil for your forge».

«Don’t you think you would have known by now, m’lord, if that were the case?» Gendry scoffed at him. «She knows nothing. I want no part in any of this – that is why I left». That was, again, only part of the truth. He had left alright, but why, he did not know.

«You left because of what me and Brienne told you» Jaime said. «You know very well that I’ve fucked my sister, and that the two royal brats have not a drop of Baratheon blood to be divided among them. Deep down inside, perhaps, you hope that Stannis will welcome you as his only flesh and blood alive – maybe even make you his heir».

«I know very well that he won’t» Gendry said, frowning. «And I don’t care for any of this. As long as I can be here». _As long as I can be here._

«Don’t play with me, brat. You were part of the Brotherhood, don’t think I don’t remember it. Do you expect me to believe that you deserted it only to come here as a blacksmith?». Jaime Lannister looked at him in contempt. The memory of the trial was still lingering between them, and Gendry could understand that pain. _The woman did not deserve to die, perhaps. So what? My mother didn’t, either. Nor the men Gregor Clegane killed at Harrenhal under Tywin Lannister’s orders._

Gendry felt rage building inside him, and  he forgot all the deference he owed to the man as his superior in rank and age. «You doubt my honour, kingslayer? Do you think people trust you here? If I am a turncloak, what can be said about you? Why are you here, fighting against your own family?».

Jamie Lannister smiled. A very unhappy smile, but not free from a strange sort of contemptuous pity. «Who knows? Perhaps I grew tired of them. Family is a nasty business, lad. Think about it, before you choose to take one – or before you say too much».

 

Sansa knew how to look cold as steel, but she had never been intimidating to anyone. The way Tyana looked at her, in something between fear and devotion, was entirely new to her, and almost disturbing. “She looks a flower just crushed by a mailed fist. She looks like I used to look”.

She could not be much older than Sansa. By her height she could have seemed younger, but there was no mistaking the curves hardly hidden by her plain woolen dress. Six-and-ten, maybe something more, and yet her expression retained something childlish, with her plump cheeks, a small red mouth and very big eyes of a beautiful brown.

It was exactly the type of girl that could excite any man’s fantasy. She certainly seemed pretty refined to be only a maid, but with a general air of modesty that suited her. Tyana’s long, long chestnut hair was combed into a big tress, a plain hairstyle, but very becoming. Sansa caught herself wondering whether that hairdo would suit her as well, whether –

«My lady». the girl courtsied to Sansa, unsteadily. Her voice was muffled and weak. Sansa smiled to her encouragingly. «Tyana, is it? Will you sit down by me?». She spoke softly, not wanting to startle her. She had summoned the wench partly for kindness, and partly for boredom. Since the castle had emptied, she had felt so dull…

Tyana hesitated.  «You are too kind». _Am I?_.

«Prove it, then – sit, I beg of you, child». It did not feel queer to address by that name someone who was her elder, not when the maid seemed so genuinely anxious.

Tyana obeyed. «Thank you, my lady». Her voice was but a whisper.

Sansa had already formed a plan on what to say, so she went straight to the point. She took Tyana’s hand in hers – a small, delicate hand – and smiled kindly to her. «Jaime Lannister had been here this morning. It appears that the man who used you had been found».

«Yes, I – ser Jaime has told me himself» Tyana stammered. Her eyes seemed wet. «I thanked him heartily, and – I must thank you as well, my lady. after -».

Sansa’s heart was swollen with compassion for the poor girl, who seemed so overwhelmed by her feelings as not to be able to continue with her small speech.

«What the man did to you was unacceptable» Sansa said, firmly. «Sometimes men do horrible things, because they think it is in their right to do so – yet women are strong, and we should remind them of it». Tyana nodded but said nothing.

«You are not baseborn, are you?» Sansa asked, after a brief pause, and the girl looked up again, startled by the question. «M-m’lady?».

«Your hands are so very fine, and you speak better than some women at court» Sansa remarked.

The wench colored, but she nodded once more. «I am- I am a bastard, my lady. Tyana Stone, that is my name». _A Stone. How very ironic._ «I was one of Lady Manderley’s bedmaids, one of her friends, but I did not want to stay there, not when all those Freys came».

«So you came here – all on your own?» Sansa inquired, doubtfully. She earned another blush from Tyana, a more conscious one  this time. «No, my lady» she blurted out. «Ser Lucas escorted me. he – but I should not call him that. he wasn’t a knight, not really. He was just another bastard, just like me, but he was to become a knight soon».

«What happened to him?».

«They killed him. Bolton’s men. He went hunting but he never returned. I found him dead, a hole in his belly and this in his hand». From her pocket she produced a ripped, soiled piece of cloth, the pink insigna of the Boltons on it. Tyana handed it like a treasure, but Sansa did not want to touch it. «I see. I am sorry for your loss» she said, quietly.

«They did not find me, and the horse. I sold it in Wintertown when I came here». What had befallen her in Winterfell, Sansa already knew, and she was happy to spare herself the details. «Will you-» she started, but a soft knock interrupted her, and the voice of Maester Yrvin announcing myself. «You may come in» Sansa said aloud.

The maester bowed as he quietly closed the door. «My lady» he said. «I hope I am not interrupting you». his eyes were studying the two women.

«Do not worry for that, maester Yrvin. I shall hear you, if you have matters to discuss» the lady of Winterfell said. Maester Yrvin’s gaze shifted to Tyana. «I will take my leave, then, if my lady does not require my presence any further» the girl said, taking the hint.

«Do wait» Sansa told her. «I shall be glad to have some company. You may stay – if the maester has nothing to object to it. Is it something for my ear only?».

The maester shook his head. «I was merely hoping you could enlighten me on some… ah… details, concerning Lord Clegane’s life».

That took her by surprise, but she speedily recovered. «I rather wonder that you should ask me – and why».

«Not much is known of his life before he came here. As the maester of Winterfell, I must compile the list of your liege lords, but the Cleganes are southrons».

«Very well, then. I will answer your questions, if it is in my power – and you may stay, Tyana».

«Yes, my lady».

The maester spread a small piece of parchment on the table and produced a quill and an ink bottle from his sleeves. He cleared his throat.

«Do you happen to know what Clegane’s age is?».

Sansa did not happen to know. «I never asked him».

«Who is his father? And his mother?».

«I really couldn’t say. He had a brother, Gregor Clegane, but he died». _Twice, and the second time I helped_.

«The Mountain, yes». He scratched his nose with the quilled and took a very short note. «They had lands, I believe».

«Yes, near Casterly Rock. It was Tytos Lannister who granted them to S – lord Clegane’s grandsire». She was oddly relieved that she could answer that. «As a reward for saving him from a lion».

«How – ironic» was the maester’s remark, accompanied by a smirk.

«The Clegane arms are three black dogs in a yellow field» Sansa said. _Like the three dogs that perished to save the Lion from a lion._

«Words?».

_A dog will die for you, but it will never lie to you. and it will look at you, straight in the face._ «I don’t know».

«I see. He was Joffrey Baratheon’s sworn shield, wasn’t he? Sandor Clegane».

«He was, the first time I met him».

«Yet he had not been knighted». Sansa shook her head. «Not even when he entered the Kingsguard».

The maester grimaced. «Only knights should be allowed to wear a white cloak» he said. «But I suppose the boy king would not mind soiling it, like Jaime Lannister before him».

_He was no knight, but he was the only one that never hit me_. «Jaime Lannister killed the Mad King, true. Methinks we should thank him for that» Tyana muttered. Sansa stared at her, surprised, and the girl  bit her lip, cheeks reddening. _She likes Jaime,_ Sansa realized.

«Ah-hem. Well». The maester seemed embarrassed. «What happened next?».

«Sandor Clegane left King’s Landing the night of the Blackwater». “Only after stealing a kiss from me at knifepoint. He promised to take me with him, and I would not go, so he left me his cloak and vanished”. «He took refuge on the Quiet Isle, until rumors of my presence in the Vale reached him. That is all I really know».

The maester mumbled something and wrote something on his parchment. «I see» he said again.

Sansa had seen something else, though. «Jaime Lannister would know more of him, I am sure» she said, when the idea dawned on her. «Have you not questioned him?».

The maester’s face plainly said that he had not, and that he was better off that way.

Sansa turned to Tyana. «Will you summon him for me, my dear?».

She did.

«Did you send for me, Lady Sansa?» Jaime Lannister asked, walking past Tyana inside the room.

«My lord». Maester Yrvin bowed stiffly. He did not like the captain of the Guard, Sansa knew, but he was a well-bred man and knew his place almost too well.

«Ser Jaime» Sansa said simply to greet him. «We are in need of assistance».

«Assistance?». Ser Jaime had the same puzzled expression Sansa had made half an hour earlier. «I am at your disposal, my lady. You need only say the words. Is there something you do not like about my late arrangements as to Lord Rickon’s guards?».

«I should have said, answers» Sansa smiled. «Do not worry, ser. I am satisfied as to the arrangements of the guards, and I would not suffer you to trouble yourself on that account». She made a gesture towards maester Yrvin. «Maester Yrvin has come to me seeking information, but I am very ill qualified with the task, or so it would seem. Perhaps you can satisfy us both, for I must say that his interrogations have raised a certain degree of – curiosity concerning Sandor Clegane».

«Sandor Clegane» Lannister said, doubtfully.

«I am compiling the annals of Winterfell, and such task demands an accurate knowledge of northern Houses and their lords» Yrvin explained. «House Clegane is from the south, and therefore it is nearly impossible for me to discern much about its story».

Jaime made a smirk. «I see. Very well, although  I can’t pretend to know much about Lord Clegane. He was never the social man, you know».

«Sit down» Sansa said to him, impatiently. Then, checking herself, she added, in a more firm voice, «if you would be so kind as to favor me with your company, that is».

He bowed his head to her, in a gallant acknowledgment, and then took a chair. Maester Yrvin spread the parchment again and looked at him.

«What is Lord Clegane’s parentage?» he asked.

«His grandfather was another Gregor Clegane. He was the kennelmaster of Lord Tytos Lannister, my own grandfather, and a good man, or so I was told. He died many years ago, before I was born» Jaime said. «He had but one son, Baldor Clegane, Sandor’s father».

«And Gregor’s» Sansa interjected.

«Aye. There was a girl too, I recall, but she died very young. Eleven or twelve, I think, but I forgot her name» Jaime said.

«S- Sandor Clegane had a sister?» Sansa said, mesmerized. She had never heard anything about it. she had never imagined – he had never –

«Yes. She died shortly before her father, but I don’t happen to know the circumstances of her death». He shrugged.

«Who was their mother?» maester Yrvin went on, unconcerned.

«A Crakehall by birth, the sixth or seven child of the head of a cadet branch. She could have married better, but she was found in bed with a bard one day, and her  father thought it would please Tytos Lannister to marry her to one of his favourite pets».

Sansa listened, silent.

«Do you happen to know what Lord Clegane’s age is?» asked the maester.

The knight smiled, amused. «I do. He is five years younger than his brother, therefore five years younger than myself. He is not yet thirty».

«I would have thought him older» Sansa said.

«Well, it is difficult to tell, with those scars» Tyana timidly said.

Sansa was hardly listening. _He is not yet thirty. Only three years older than Tyrion Lannister. I thought he was the same age as father._

It took some more time before the maester was finally satisfied, but Sansa paid attention only by halves. Her thoughts were at Deepwood Motte and its lord.

_I made him a lord, and I didn’t know him,_ she thought. She had slept next to him, broken her fast with him, she had asked him to die for her, and she had never known anything about him. If he had died during their endless journey, he would have died a stranger.

Stranger. That was the name of his horse too. The name of death itself, and Sandor was kissed by death as he was by fire. “How befitting”.

That night she dreamt an old dream, a giant shadow threatening her, a shadow clad in a black armor. Only, when she stabbed it, the helm fell, and it was not darkness looking at her, but Sandor Clegane, death dancing in his grey eyes.

 

Maester Farad had always counted himself lucky. Born the fourth son of a family of landed knights, he had had no hopes of inheriting lands or money, true, and he would have been ill-suited to be a hedge knight. Still, he had found in the Citadel a home, friends, family. He had learnt more than most, and found shelter from poverty and war. He had never been bright, but he had forged his chain. He had never been a greedy man, either – Deepwood Motte was more than enough to him.

There he had peace, books, and respect. There little or nothing had bothered him, until the ironborn came. Even then, however, his chain had saved his life, and when Stannis had taken the place back, he had resumed his place as maester, waiting for his new lord.

Then that lord had come.

Fared was disgusted with him, and worried. What would become of them, he thought, now that they were in the hands of such an unruly master? The only thing he knew was that the good days were over, quite over, and that consciousness was the more painful as it was inflicted upon him from the Second son of an insignificant house, the grandsom of a kennelmaster, a drunken brute who did not care in the least about their need for a new blacksmith, or the stable roof which needed urgent reparation!

Yet there he was, sitting in front of His new Lord, who regardless of the sacredness of the Library was drinking his third flagon of wine since breakfast, looking out of the windows, his scarred lips twitching under the force of some unpleasant recollection.

«My lord - the accounts» he said again, although not with the vehemence which the occasion required. He was not a hero, after all.

Sandor Clegane turned towards him with an annoyed grimace. «What is it, Garlan?» he growled.

«Farad» Farad boldly corrected him. «You have not looked at the accounts. Some of my plans are in need of your approbation, my lord». Deepwood Motte was too little to have a steward; it was the maester’s duty to fill that role.

Clegane seemed to finally pay attention to him. He frowned. «Why is it?» he snapped.

The maester looked at him, confused, almost forgetting about his scars. «My lord, I am not sure I understand you»

«What do you need my approbation for? Aren't you the buggering maester?»

Farad was taken aback by his answer. «My lord, I thought...»

«Go fuck yourself with your mylords. It is your thrice-damned duty to do this. Do what you must, why should you bother to ask me?».

Farad felt a glimmer of hope. «So, do I gather that these small matters should be left to my care entirely?». Not even lord Glover had said that much, may the Gods judge him justly.

«Aye, aye» Clegane snorted, out of patience. Then, much to Farad surprise, he paused briefly. «I was not meant to be a lord, and sure as hell I am not going to act as one. You may do as you please, as long as you don't set fire to the place». His mouth twitched again. "She would not like it, damn her" the maester heard him mutter.

«I thank you, my lord» he said, glowing with satisfation.

He made a gesture, as if wanting to dismiss a very corteous fly. «Don't you bloody thank me, maester» he said, wearily. «You do what you must. And for the rest - you might have your own way. Be sure that the servants get paid well. We do not want them to be scared away by my pretty face».

Farad cleared his throat. «Will this be all?» he asked.

«Aye. Go, now».

Farad was very ready to obey him. He went away, his robes fluttering as he hurried out and to his tower, chest swelling with relief and triumph. To be left in charge of the manor! That the lord should leave all in his hands! It was more than he could hope for.

Lord Sandor Clegane was a singular man, but perhaps not so bad as Farad had fancied him to be. In time, he might even bring himself to like the fellow.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to thank you all for the very nice comments you left on chapter 1,2,3,4. I am soooo happy someone likes this. Please continue sharing your thoughts with me.  
> This chapter won't be as good as the rest, I suppose, but it was necessary. More mistery and more drama, just to add some spice.


	6. Less like a dog, more like a wolf

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wolves mate for life.

Sansa Stark was sitting on an elaborate chair in her solarium, her blue eyes fixed on him, and Sandor Clegane was uncomfortable. She had made him wait for a day and a night before giving him audience, and he had not expected her to act so coolly.

He waited for her to greet him. She said nothing. In fact, she did nothing but stare at him boldly, waiting for him to speak first, the cunning wench.

He had meant to be kind, this time. He had meant to use soft words, to let her know that he was not such a coarse, drunken brute as she took him for, but no such words came to him. "Got no courteous chirping for me this time, to welcome your dog back. Not even an angry one" he said instead, flatly.

He expected something back from her, some offended retort. He got silence instead.

And that look of hers, the one she gave Joffrey after one of his beatings.

"Very well then, keep them to yourself" he spat. "Can't say I miss them, anyway". _That was a lie, dog. Pray she doesn't realize it. She despises you already, you don't want her bloody pity_. But in fact, pity would be close enough to forgiveness. He could do with some pity for a change.

Silence was her weapon, however, and she would have been a fool to part with it so easily. His only weapon were his angry speeches, but they were blunt daggers in comparison. No one could fight with bloody blunt daggers.

"Seems like I have no business here. Should have stayed to rot in my bloody castle. Should have known you would not bear the sight of my ugly face".

But she was looking at him in the face for once, without flinching. She was an ice statue of the Maid, judging him.

He turned to walk away.

"I will tell you what you should have done. You should have asked me to forgive you for forgetting your place".

He understood now why she had kept silent. She was a gentle soul, and she could not hold the steel in her voice half as well as she held her silent accuse.

_I should have. The moment after that,I would have blurted out some fucking nonsense about how much I am in love with you. You would not have liked that any better than my harsh words, I'll wager._

"Aye" he only said, unwillingly. "That I should".

She waited. Seven hells, had the girl chosen those two fucking weeks to grow smart all of a sudden?

"Forgive me, my lady". Those words were the hardest he had ever said, perhaps.

She bit her lip, and nodded. From that stiff nod he knew she had relented.

Silence stretched again, but this time, Sandor wasn't the only uneasy one.

"I slapped you" Sansa Stark said at last, a hint of self-reproach in her pretty voice. "That was not ladylike"

Sandor snorted. "You did well, little bird. Next time, aim at what a man has between his legs". She is a child. She should not have forgiven me so easily. Lords never forgive. He ought to tell her so, for she had to understand that... but he could not bring himself to say it. He wanted her forgiveness, he wanted her to look at him again, he wanted _her_.

She gave him an angry look. "Will there be a next time?"

"Hells, not from me. You have quite a slap for being such a frail wench".

She colored slightly. "I was afraid"

"Were you, really? Did you think I would hurt you? You should know better by now". I wanted many things, but never to hurt her, bugger me, not in earnest.

Her blush grew deeper on her pretty cheeks. "I did not. Not really" she admitted.

Sandor really did not know what to make of the girl.

"Well, never mind, little bird. I am your dog, remember, and a dog doesn't question his master's doing". _Yes, I am your dog, now and always. The master I have chosen for myself. The master I have chosen for life._

Dogs didn't mate for life, but wolves did.

 

"That is not fair" Pod whispered to the pond of water. A face that had once been plump stared back, feature trembling as the wind broke the surface of the steaming water in the pools.

The Godswood was quiet. Weeks after lord Davos departure, no one had ventured inside it to pray, fearing the wroth of the king might descend on them. Only every now and then someone would choose it for a bath or a walk, but always when they could not risk being seen by the few Queensmen left in the castle.

The boy had taken a liking to the spot immediately after his arrival at the castle. When he had followed Gendry, he had imagined the castle to be a gloomy place like Harrenhal, and the northerners dark, silent, cold men, harsh and cruel. Yet he had had nothing but kindness from the people, and even Sandor Clegane was not half as scary as he had expected.

_Gendry is nobody's squire. Why is he going to be knighted?_ Podrick was almost sure he was older than Gendry, and he had served as a squire for years. He should be knighted as well, but Sandor Clegane had laughed at him in the face when he had asked him.

"Why would you want a fucking lordship, lad? Won't help you swing that sword of yours, and won't prevent an enemy from killing you if you are not good enough".

Podrick wanted to be a knight, he wanted to be important, he wanted to be _respected_.

_Lady Brienne was stronger than a knight, and braver, and truer, and she died_. He had not been able to help her. He stood there in chains, screaming as the maid of Tarth turned to Lem and cut him down with Oathkeeper, before Gord stabbed her the first time.

Gendry had freed him when he had decided to head north. For that he was grateful, but Pod could not forgive him for standing by. At the inn we gave the orphans food, but he did not help us when the Brotherhood took us. Lady Brienne was a true knight, but now she's dead.

Jaime Lannister hated Gendry more than Pod did, and when Sansa Stark had asked him to have him as a squire, he had refused.

But he did not have a choice, in the end, not when his lady had spoken. Winterfell needed knights, and the sooner, the better. She knows nothing of the trial. She does not know who was behind it. Lady Stoneheart was only a name to her, nothing more.

_Gendry let Lady Brienne die. He is no true knight, he will never be._

No, it was not fair, Podrick Payne thought again. But perhaps Sandor Clegane was right, and there was no such thing as a true knight. I won't be a knight if Gendry is. Mylady was not, and she was strong.

One day, Gendry would pay for his deeds.

Night was approaching, and Pod turned towards the gates of the Godswood. Lord Clegane was waiting for his squire, and Pod had a letter to give him.

 

"Wo-o-lves m-m-mate for... For... Life" Tyana spelled out at last, awkwardly. She bent closer to the volume master Yrvin had laid out for her on the table, blinked twice, and then looked up again , seeking the maester's approbation.

"Yes. Wolves mate for life" Yrvin said, gently, and Tyana's face blossomed into a merry smile.

"Very well. You are certainly improving" Sansa told her in encouragement, and Tyana's face brightened, her smile broadened.

"True. You must be very proud of yourself, child" ser Jaime said, showing that even the despised Kingslayer could prove to be a well-bred man, and Tyana's eyes lowered in confusion; it went unnoticed but to Sansa, who felt a rush of pity for the girl. _She is still an innocent girl, like I am, but her love has been ill-bestowed._ Ser Jaime did not care for women.

The knight was standing by the door of the library, looking slightly bored. He had been playing with a leather string he had found on the floor. Tyana had been eyeing him for more than an hour, and it was plain that she would have paid all the gold of Castelry Rock to switch places with that string.

Though not lowborn, Tyana had never learned her letters, having been sent at a very young age at White Harbor as a maid. Sansa had thought hard study could prove a good way for her to recover from her wounds, and it had proven a good idea - when Ser Jaime wasn't around.

"Go on" Yrvin urged Tyana.

"Wol- wolves..." she stammered, returning to work... And she was interrupted again by someone slamming the door open. Sansa saw ser Jaime putting his only hand on his sword, but she knew who it was before she turned to look. Who else could rush in unannounced?

"My lord" Sansa said, nodding to Sandor Clegane as he staggered inside the room, soaked with mud and water. A snowstorm wasn't enough to keep him from the training yard.

Her companions didn't reach quite as calmly. Tyana squeaked and drew closer to Sansa, terrified by the sulky appearance of the warrior, and the maester said something incoherent about books and the sacredness of the library in a throaty whisper. Jaime Lannister snorted, annoyed. "What are you thinking, Sandor, to come in thus unannounced? I was going to stick my sword right through your bowels"

"Should have loved to see you try, Lannister" Clegane growled, with a hideous grin that twisted painfully the gnarled flesh on his left cheek. The cold did not agree with his scars; the frail skin broke regularly after being exposed to the icy winds of the north, making the left side of his face even uglier than it had been in King's Landing. "I need to speak with your lady, alone".

All four turned to Sansa. "Most willingly, my lord" she said composedly.

The maester rose and took his leave, Tyana quickly following. Jaime was the last one, casting an unreadable glance at Clegane before quitting the room.

"Do sit down, my lord. You have been practicing in the yard, haven't you? You look weary" Sansa said, polite as always, but with a shy smile. She had been struggling hard to act as a friend to him, hoping they could finally get on well.

"I'm not a fragile little thing like you are, to be wearied out by some gnat swinging a stick at me" he grumbled, but she knew he was weary. His leg pained him still, although his limp could easily pass unnoticed. He was as good with a sword as any man, enough to inflict a severe beating to any squire or knight mad enough to challenge him, but that took its toll. His breath ws ragged as he sat, and he was rubbing his thigh were the old wound troubled him.

"Is the pain back? I'll ask master Yrvin for some milk of the poppy, if it pleases you" she asked, softly.

"It does not please me" he snapped. "I'll ask him myself when I need it". Lord Clegane was touchy when it came to his wound, so the girl chose not to resent his harsh answer. "You do not need to trouble yourself on my account, lass" he added, more gently.

Since his return, Lord Sandor Clegane seemed to be constantly shifting from his foulest mood to his best. He would utter a crude remark or an angry one and then go back to his usual, indifferent behavior in no time. Sansa did not understand him, but she did not care to make any further inquires lest he should snap at her. She did not want to start a quarrel.

"Why did you want to see me, then?" she asked him.

He produced a small roll of parchment. "This came to me by raven" he said, darkening, throwing it at her lap where it landed with a soft thud.

"By raven? To you?". Sansa looked at him, wondering. Who could be sending him messages?

"Stannis doesn't trust me, but it seems his want of men in the southern border is greater than his dislike for me" Clegane said, while she was still reading. "I am to go south next moon, when this buggering Horpe comes down from the Wall".

"Why would Stannis send for you?" Sansa asked, surprised to hear a hint of annoyance in her own voice. "He know you are needed here as my sworn shield. One soldier will not help him win the war".

"Aye, but a lord might - and I happen to be one, thanks to your kind interception".

"I will write to him immediately" the girl decided. "He might spare you very well, you know, if...".

"I cannot refuse him, little bird, and I don't want to" Sandor interrupted her. "Once I've killed for him, he'll know he can trust me".

"But I need you here, and Rickon does too" she protested. "And Deepwood Motte...".

"I don't give a rat's arse about that place" he spat.

"What about me and Rickon? Don't you care about _us_?" Sansa asked. "You swore to protect us".

He looked at her, but said nothing. His eyes were of a deep, dark gray. Beautiful eyes, she thought, and frightening.

"Lannister will be here. He will protect you" he said slowly.

"Will he?".

"If you don't trust him, why make him captain of your guards?" he remarked.

"I wanted _my men_ to trust him, although I may not trust him myself" Sansa said. "I do not hate him, but he has done terrible things".

"So have I, little bird" Sandor Clegane murmured. "So have I".

Sansa bit her lip. She knew he had, and sometimes she wanted to shrink away from him in disgust, but he was a changed man, reformed. He had _cried_ that night, cried as she sang to him.

_Jaime Lannister has never lost his way, Sandor Clegane has, that is the difference. I want to be the one to save him, as he has saved me, again, and again, and again._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry if this chapter's not long as the others. EXAMS ARE COMING.  
> Also, thank you for all the nice comments and feedback and kudos. I appreciate it, I really do. :)


	7. The Hunt - Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rickon's nameday is approaching, and a hunting party is arranged.

 

Bloody hunting party.

Sandor had never liked hunting, it was a damn waste of time. He remembered those times he had accompanied Robert Baratheon in his hunting parties. Days and days in the Godswood, riding until their are got sore, looking for a boar or a wild lion among every fucking bush - and no wine.

_And what chance could a fucking brat stand against a boar, when Robert was slained?_

Rickon Stark rode first, gleaming with excitement for his first trial as a huntsman. To persuade his pretty sister to let him go had been a hard task, but the boy would be seven in a week, and as he was the rightful Lord and a sad boy no one had denied him that nameday gift. Next to him was Jaime Lannister, whose disgusted expression told the world how much he disliked the very idea of being out in the Wolfswood. Two men clad in grey followed them closely, guards chosen to protect their liege lord with their life should any "accident" befall him. It was known that a hunting party could be the best way to get rid of someone, like King Robert's departure had shown not that much ago.

Sandor Clegane rode behind them, as lady Stark 's sworn shield, and the girl himself was riding with him, on her grey mare. She had named it Jonquil, of course. He had laughed as she told him, and had called her a naive little girl, but she was not that much a girl, more like a woman.

She was clad in silver grey, and her hair tied in a long, auburn tress. Her dress was plain, and so her hairdo, but her cheeks were burning for the cold, her eyes were shining, and she looked like a spirit of the woods, one the peasants swore could lead you the wrong way to eat your heart in the dark of the forest. _She ate mine_.

Sansa Stark did not know that he was thinking of her, and why should she? All the thoughts spinning in that little head went to Rickon and his safety. She had persuaded Sandor to attend so that she could join them and the lords, to see that no harm came to her beloved brother.

Fact was, Sandor was thinking of her. He was uncomfortably aware of her presence, and every time she spoke to him he heard her voice shatter into a dozen, tiny moans.

He had dreamed of her, again, the most vivid dream he had ever had. Sandor seldom dreamt, and his dreams were never worth remembering, but when the little vixen slipped inside them, there was no helping it. He would dream of her, and desire would come and turn the most innocent smile of hers into a moan.

In his dream she was in the Godswood, the one in King's Landing, and she was sitting in a meadow, picking summer flowers. Her hair was the dark brown of Alayne Stone, and it fell in curls on her forehead. Her dress was modest but he could guess every turn the skin took under it.

In that dream she turned to him and flowers fell from her hand. "I was waiting for you" she whispered. "Come, we don't have much time, Sandor".

He liked the sound of his name on her lips. He came closer, bewitched by her, as she undid the laces of her corset. He wanted to ask her something - why him, why now? - but his throat was dry.

Naked in a bed of flowers, Sansa Stark awaited for him. The dark dye was fading, washed away by the moisty grass, as she parted her legs for him.

The rest, he did not wish to remember. His breeches felt all but too tight already.

  
_She will never be yours_. 

He knew it, a painful truth, but it was not enough to keep her away from her head. 

To be attacked by a boar suddenly seemed a very good alternative to a life of torment.

"Is something worrying you, my lord?" Sansa asked. They were far enough from the rest of the party, and she did not fear to be overheard.

  
_Not Sansa to you. She's your lady, dog, only that_. But her voice was sweet and rang with concern.

 "This wood is buggering damp" he muttered. _As you were between your legs when I dreamt of you, begging me to fuck you hard and good_. Yet what made him uneasy was not that part of the dream, either. 

  
_Get a hold on yourself. Seven Hells_.

The blue eyes of Sansa Stark flickered to him briefly, before fixing on the road again. When she was not angry with him, sometimes she still couldn't look at him. 

"Yes, it is damp, and cold" she agreed. "I pray the Seven that Rickon will not catch a cold. It would be dangerous in this weather".

_Not half as dangerous as you are to me. Not even close._

"The lad is a stout and healthy one" Sandor said to reassure her. "And his cloak is thicker than yours. You need not worry for him".

"I am sure you are right" the girl said, gratefully. She was grateful in his dream as well, when...

_Seven buggering hells._

Horns were blown in a distance, preventing him from having dangerous recollections. He heard Lord Rickon cry in delight. The boy was saying something to Lannister, pointing excitedly to the falcon one of the huntsmen had just released.

The whole party followed it, but Sandor was left behind with his precious girl. "What, little bird?" he asked.

"Jonquil is scared of the dogs and the horns, I think" Sansa said, patting the beast on the neck, gently.

Sandor snorted. "You should have picked another horse. Did I not tell you so, lass?". She never protested when he called her lass, or girl, or little bird, unless she was angry. Sandor often wondered why. 

"I did not think she would be so scared. She was never scared of the horses back in Winterfell".

"If that horse gets too nervous, I'll have to carry you" he said, flatly. "Don't want to risk that pretty neck of yours for a bloody hunt, do you?".

Her cheeks darkened in the most exquisite of blushes, and she nodded graciously. "I will be careful".

They rode towards the sound of men and dogs, to join the party again. They found that Rickon had struck a hare with his bow, and that another knight had been so lucky as to kill a fox.

"Oh! Poor little thing" Sansa whispered, wide-eyed. "His fur is so beautiful".

The knight had heard her, and he approached her. "A fox pelt is worth its weight in gold" he said, "but this one's for you, my lady. It will suit you".

Annoyed, Sandor turned to his fair lady, only to find her smiling at the knight. "You are very gallant, ser Devan. I thank you for this gift, with all my heart".

_Would that I could make him eat that fucking pelt._

"The pleasure is all mine, Lady Stark".

"The fox was old. You won't make much of its fur, it's ruined" Sandor told her, coldly.

Ser Devan eyed him angrily. "You are mistaken, ser. 'twas a mother. I missed the pups, but she had three, I saw them myself".

Sandor did not need to turn to the girl. He could imagine how that revelation would affect that soft heart of hers, and he felt almost sorry for the knight.

"I'm no ser" he said instead, just as the bird chirped, "poor creature", looking on the verge of tears.

Oblivious to Sansa's dismay, the knight smiled at her, but she did not smile back. "I cannot accept your gift, ser Devan" the girl said, gravely. "You should not have slained her".

Ser Devan bowed in submission, and curled his lips. "As you say, my lady. I am sorry I have displeased you".

"She'll take the pelt" Sandor interjected. "Mother or not, she's dead now. No use crying on it".

"Lord Clegane has the right of it" Sansa Stark said. "I will have it, but I'll have no more innocent beasts slain".

Ser Devan bowed again and joined the other hunters. "I fear I have made him angry" Lady Stark whispered.

  
_You have, and I'm all but too glad you did_. "He should have known better".

"He was trying to be gallant" Sansa said, defensively.

"Aye. The fool was trying to woo you". He could not help the hint of annoyance in his voice.

"Me? Surely not". She said it a little too innocently.

Sandor snorted. "As you say, my lady".

Sansa frowned at him, angrily. "Are you mocking me?" she asked, coolly.

"If you don't want to see, I won't make you" he said, careful to keep his expression unreadable. "'tis not of me to teach you how the game is played".

She raised an eyebrow. "Is that so? I thought you liked nothing better than giving me sermons".

That remark struck him deep. _I want you to see the truth, girl. I want to protect you._  


"You do not know what I may or may not like" he said, calmly, impersonally. "You don't want to know".

"As a matter of fact, I would. Perhaps I could understand you then".

"Am I that hard to understand for you, little bird?". _I thought Littlefinger had taught her, but she can't see what is in front of her. Or maybe she doesn't want to._  


"Sometimes you are" she said, slowly.

Sandor eyed her in suspicion. "A dog is easy to understand, little bird. It follows his master's bidding and hopes he will throw it a bone when the feast's over" he said. 

"I-" she began, but he interrupted her. "You're wrong if you think there's anything more. I am not one of the fine knights you saw at court. I am not even a true lord".

Horns were heard blowing again, and coming nearer. Sandor and Sansa were still out of sight, but the hunters were heading in their direction, and Sansa's mare huffed nervously. The girl bit her lip, and bent to murmur something in the mare's hear, soothingly. It was a charming sight, Sandor had to admit. Her plump lips curled worriedly, her cheeks glowing for the cold... and a good portion of her neckline exposed as she curved on the horse's neck.

_I should drag her down of that horse before she breaks her neck, not stand here fucking here with my eyes._

"Better join the rest of the party" he told her. "Before they come for you".

Sansa Stark eyes went to his in true wonder at that. "They know that you're with me. Why would they?" she asked.

  
_Being with me is a fucking good reason, you foolish brat_. Feeling uncomfortable, he shrugged. "This way" he grunted, turning Stranger in another direction. She followed mildly.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is very, very long, so I decided to split it in four. Hope you like it, I'll upload part 2 in a few days... Hopefully


	8. The Hunt - Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Many questions asked, and not many answers given.

Sansa followed Sandor through the wood. It was always extraordinary to her to think that people could know which way to go, as if there was a trace hidden where she could only see trees, snow, and sky.

She remembered getting lost in Wintertown once. She had been no more than five or six, and she had gone out with Jory Cassel for her first riding lesson. On their way back they had stopped to visit a relative of Jory's, a widow who earned a small living selling jerbs and remedies for thre smallfolk.

As the two chatted, Sansa stood nearby, waiting patiently for him, the small, well-bred lady that she was. The sight of a fat, mean-looking cat fascinated her. She followed it outside and then two or three streets away, but when she looked around, she did not know which way to go.

_"We leave a trace in every path we tread, small lady. That is what my grandmother always tells me"  Jory said when he found me. "You should have looked back, and then you would have known which way to go"._

_I don't know the way, Jory. If not for this man, I wouldn't even be alive._

There were footprints there as well, like that time, but heading in every direction. The trees looked all the same. Nothing could be used as a mark for the landscape.

Yet they were nearer.

"How do you know where to go?" Sansa asked Clegane.

"That's what Hounds are good for. Following trails" was his answer, not a very satisfactory one.

"I could not tell one spot from the other"

The man glanced at her darkly. "Because you did not watch closely the first time. You did not see".

"See what?".

He shrugged. "Things. Small things, those other people miss. Those things could save your life, one day. Become your best weapon".

"Littlefinger noticed everything as well. He was good at seeing things no one noticed" Sansa said.

"That Littlefucker was smarter than the rest of King's Landing put together. He was no fighter, little bird. All he had left was his eyes, and his head".

"If you had this talent as well, why didn't you use it?"the girl asked him.

His grey eyes returned to her, gravely. "I did not care for power, or gold. I wanted blood, and for that, all you need is a sword". He patted his almost tenderly, and Sansa shivered, remembering. It was good that the Hound was dead.

"And what do you want, now?". 

"A fucking fire, some wine, and a bed" he told her, matter-of-factly.

  
_He is lying_. The Hound prided himself on being always true, but he had lied for her, and for himself, and she sensed that there was something he wanted to tell her. _Is he hiding something from me?_  


Sansa eyed him suspiciously, but he wasn't looking her way. "Do you..." she began.

It all happened quickly then. Something small, red and furry emerged from the bushes amd darted between the horse's legs, so quickly neither of them could realise what it was. Jonquil neighed and placed in horror, and Sansa shrieked as she tried to hold on the reins. The horse bolted onwards, the girl cringing desperately to the saddle while Sandor Clegane screamed something...

Then she was on the ground, gasping for the impact, and the whole universe seemed to explode into white stars.

Samsa felt big, rough hands taking hold of her, helping her to sit up, and she blinked. Finally, she could see, and the first thing she saw was the face of Sandor Clegane, squatting by her and frowning at her, concerned. "Little bird, do you hear me?".

"Yes" she breathed. "Yes".

"Are you hurt?". Sansa stared into his grey eyes, focusing on her own body. She had landed on snow, fortunately, and though she felt sore, the pain was not insufferable to bear. "I think I am well" she whispered, although she was still shaking. She was grateful he was holding her by the shoulders, preventing her from falling.

His face was only inches away from hers. Sansa could see his skin, red and ruined by the cold, and his scars, like a giant spiderweb of fire carved on his cheek forever. _How hard must it be for him_ , she thought dizzily, _to have his_ _pain and his weakness in display for everyone to see_.

She did not realise he was staring at him, until he flinched away from her, relenting his grasp. "That fucking horse" he cursed. "Got scared by a buggering squirrel. I hope the wolves find her first"

"Jonquil!" Sansa cried. "Is she gone?" 

"She ran like the Stranger himself was chasing her" he told her. "My fault for letting you mount her. Madness, in a fucking hunting expedition".

Sansa felt her cheeks growing warm. She realized she was crying, and no wonder. She was frightened, and she felt foolish and little and helpless. 

"Here. On your feet, lass" the man said, not ungently, pulling her up. 

She took his arm as they walked to Stranger. Her legs were shaking badly, and without him, she doubted she could have gone far. The black horse looked almost annoyed to have been left there on his own, and snorted when they reached his side.

Sansa was shivering. Snow had clinged to her dress and melted partially, leaving her frozen and damp. "Give me your cloak" he said, noticing. She obeyed, unlacing the cloak with trembling fingers. He took it and gave her his own cloak instead. It was bigger, thicker, warm, and it was dry. She accepted it gratefully, wrapping it around herself. It was so long it reached the ground, but she was happy to keep the cold out.

"On you go" Clegane muttered. He put his hands on her waist and lifted her effortlessly on Stranger's back, before mounting being her. It reminded her of how it had felt to ride with him during their journey north, but she had ridden behind him most of the times, leaving him free to use his sword if necessary. 

It was familiar to her. She knew how it was like to have his arms circling her, his torso against her back. At nights she had slept next to him, his huge body standing between her and Jaime Lannister. Sansa did not like to recall those nights - cold, damp, embarrassing nights, with the three of them awkwardly huddled together. _At least he does not stink as we did back then._ All she could smell was the wood, and the horse, and leather, and something oddly familiar yet unknown. 

He handed her his gloves, too big for her, and she murmured some words of thanks. She had left hers in one of the bags fastened to Jonquil's saddle. She thought of her mare again, with regret. How long could a horse survive the bites of cold and those of the feral beasts of the forest, she did not know.

She thought of asking Sandor Clegane, but she wasn't sure she could handle his answer at the present.

They soon reached the rest of the party, and were welcomed by cries of surprise and shock. She replied to their question with short, confused answers.

"I am well now" she assured Peter Marling, one of her guards, who was eyeing Clegane with suspicion, as if he thought him responsible for her small accident.

'Are you sure, Sansa?". Rickon was looking truly worried.

"Oh, yes. I fell from Jonquil, nothing more".

"The horse?" See Jaime asked gravely.

"She ran away" the girl said regretfully.

"I am taking her to Deepwood Motte" Sandor Clegane interjected, after the two of them and Lannister had detached themselves from the rest of the company. "Lady Sansa is wet and she might catch cold".

Jaime Lannister's lips curled oddly, but he acquiesced with a nod. "Of course. We can't risk her falling ill" he agreed. "Two of my men will escort you to the castle".

"No!" Sansa said, too quickly. She had to check herself. "Ser Jaime" she told her captain of the guards, composedly."There are but five guards here. I will not deprive my brother of that protection". Lannister opened his mouth to reply, but she gave him a veruy , very imposing look. "Five guards and four lords. If you were to meet someone, even one of them might make the difference" she remarked.

"Clegane is a good warrior, but he is not enough. Perhaps one of the lords might escort you, then".

"No horse could keep pace with Stranger" Sandor Clegane said, spitefully. "And I won't have a lordling around while I am with the girl. We cannot trust them".

"You can't be alone. It is not safe".

"It was safe enough when we crossed half of Westeros" Sansa said. "We are but a few miles from Lord Clegane's castle".

Jaime Lannister relented. "Very well. We will arrive at sunset". He turned to Clegane. "Keep her safe".

"I will".

They left without another word.

They did not speak for a long while. Sandor rode as quickly as the path would allow him, and Sansa was lost in recollections. She remembered all the times her father had told her tales about Deepwood Motte and its history,but she found she could not remember much, and she had never been there on person. The castle was small and detached, not easily reached. Of was not a journey for a little girl, so Ned Stark had always gone there alone.

Sansa had set of from Winterfell hoping to finally see it. It had been the day before, and the night they had slept in a small inn, the only one along the road that cut the Wolfswood in two.

"What is Deepwood Motte like?" she asked him, finally.

"What?" he asked, distracted.

"Deepwood Motte" she repeated. "Do you like it?".

"'tis nothing like Winterfell".

"So you don't like it".

"Never said that, did I, little bird?".

Sansa turned to frown at him. "Do you like it or not?".

"Never given much thought about it" was all he said. 

"But you had never had a house of your own. Aren't you happy to have one?".

"I have Clegane's Keep as well, now that my shitty brother's dead. So what? A house is just stone and wood. A man can find one anywere".

"A house" Sansa agreed. "But not a home".

"What's the difference?" Sandor shrugged, and since her shoulders were against his chest, she had the odd impression that the whole world was shaking under the force of a strong earthquake.

Sansa fell silent for a while, thinking deeply. For days after his return she had thought about what Jaime Lannister had told her and the master about the Clegane family. There were things she wanted to ask him, but some she did not dare to mention.

"As you were away" she began, quietly, after some time, "Jaime Lannister told me some things about you".

He was silent for a moment, then he laughed mirthlessly. "About me, little bird? What could he have to say?".

She bit her lips, and started toying with the edge of his cloak. "Maester Yrvin wanted to know something about you. For... for his book, you know, the one about the Northern Houses".

"So?" he asked flatly.

"He asked me first, but I could not answer him. I found that I did not know much about you" she murmured, so low that at first she thought he had not heard her. She went on."I asked you to protect me, but I did not know you, not really".

He paused. "There is nothing to know" he said, his tone and expression unreadable.

Sansa hesitated. "Are you really nine-and-twenty?" she asked then. She did not know why, but she was curious.

"Aye, I am not yet thirty" he answered, indifferently. 

"I thought you were older" she confessed.

"And how old did the bird expect me to be?".

"I don't know. Thirty-eight, perhaps, or forty. You are young" she perused, lost in thought. 

"I am still twice your age, girl. Not that young anymore".

"Your mother was a Crakehall".

He tensed. "So what?".

"I did not know".

"Why should you?" he rasped.

"It is not fair. You know all sort of things about me. Secrets" Sansa said, impatiently. "How can I be a good lady, if I don't know my men?".

"How would knowing my mother's house be of any use to you?" he mocked her. "You know all you need to know about me. You know that I would die to you, that I would kill for you".

Sansa shook her head, angrily. He did not understand. He was such a coarse, foolish brute sometimes. "I know how you got your scars" she snapped. "You told me years ago, remember? Why did you do it, if you did not want me to know anything about you?".

He did not answer, but she knew he was angry because he was still tense. She was glad she had made him angry, for once. She had tried to show him that she truly wanted them to be friends, but he did not care.

A long time passed before the silence was broken, but in the end, Sansa spoke. "I don't understand you" she said. "You would die for me, I know it. But why? You don't trust me. You think I'm naive and foolish, so why would you waste your life for my sake?".

He seemed inclined to ignore her question, but in the end, he answered it. "My life's not worth much, lass. I am not afraid of death".

"But why are you protecting Rickon? why are you protecting me?" she insisted, stubbornly. "Of all people...".

"...I chose two brats, aye" he rasped. "Not the smartest move on my part, perhaps. So what? I have the fucking right to choose how to die, and for whom".

He had not answered her question. He never answered her questions. He did not trust her, and he never would, she knew. 

That was when they reached Deepwood Motte.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soo as promised this is part two of four. I hope you will enjoy this.   
> Hope you've passed a lovely Christmas, and that the holidays will be just as lovely :P  
> Thank you as always for your comments, kudos, and reads. They make me really happy, keep them coming!!  
> Part three will be uploaded soon... Hopefully.


	9. The Hunt - Part 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Deepwood Motte welcomes a lord and a lady.

No one saw them coming. There were not many people in Deepwood Motte, and they were all busy preparing the small fort for the arrival of the Starks and their bannermen.The whole household merely comprehended seven servants, a cook, three maids and a dozen, lazy men-at-arms, who spent their days gambling and drinking. One of them, the one in charge of the gates, finally heard his lord screaming curses at him, and the wooden gates were opened in front of them, like a giant mouth ready to swallow them.

Sandor glanced quickly at the girl. Her clear blue eyes were scanning the castle intently, but he could not determine if she liked the view. 

_It is nothing like Winterfell, this fucking place. Why would she like it?_

It was not Winterfell, and not even a real castle. Only part of it was made of solid stone; the rest was wood and brick, and though not unpleasant to see, certainly nothing a lady might admire. The stone building was a solid square, where the lord of the castle and his guests had their rooms - or most of them, for the rooms were not enough to accommodate a large party, and would merely be sufficient for this particular one.  The servant's quarters were in the wooden building that circled three sides of the main one, and they were far more modest.

The very same guard that had opened the gates ran to attend to them, taking their horses in his care and muttering some excuse. He stank of cheap wine, smoke, and sweat, and his mail was half red with rust. He made a poor guars indeed, and a still worse stableman, The girl seemed rather surprised to see him disappear towards the stables, leaving them alone in the middle of the yard, unattended.

"This way" Sandor told her, under a new wave of irritation.

_You dog, you should know better. 'tis nobody's fault is she is so damn refined. She was out of place even at court, she does not fit here._

 He headed towards the main door at a swift pace, leaving his liege lady to trot behind him as well as she could, avoiding the paddles of water, mud and the Gods knew what else that constellated the uneven ground. Empty barrels had been thrown in a corner of the yard, and a stench of stale food emanated from the wood.

As they entered the Hall, where half of his servants were busy dusting the old, worn-out tapestries and curtains, maester - fuck, what was his name again? - appeared from nowhere and headed towards them at a rapid pace, his robes flapping ungraciously behind him, the chain of his order clanking at every step.

"Lord Clegane!" he exclaimed when he was near enough to be heard. He ignored the girl completely, and no wonder, for she had still his cloak on, and her pretty features were half-concealed under its wrappings. She was still behind him, looking around. Sandor would have rather liked her not to.

"It should all be ready by know" Sandor said, icily. "I wrote to you...".

The maester eyed him reproachfully. "My lord, you wrote me but yesterday. There was not much time". Seven hells, how much trouble could such a rathole give to be made ready?

"I count six men here. Where are all the others?".

"I persuaded half of Kendrick's men to help in the kitchens" the maester informed him, looking pleased with himself.

"Can't wait to be poisoned" Sandor snorted spitefully.

"The won't cook" the man said, offended. "I called two women from a village nearby for that. The men will help".

Sandor growled and made a sign for him to move on.

"The bedrooms are being arranged as we speak. As you asked, I have prepared your room for lady Stark's personal use, my lord - she will find it ready as soon as she arrives". Sandor felt uneasy. He had not planned the girl to know he had given her his own room - one of the few with an almost comfortable bed, a fireplace, and windows looking east.

She emerged from behind Sandor, and the master started violently. "My lady" he stammered. 

"I am Sansa Stark" the girl said, smiling to him. "And you must be the master in charge of the place".

"Maester Farad, my lady, if it pleases you".

"Send for one of the maids, and escort Lady Stark to her rooms. See that a bath is arranged for her, as well as dry clothes" Sandor barked to Farad, and the maester bowed. "Of course. This way, my lady".

Sansa turned to Sandor to look at him, but he ignored her, looking away,  and she was forced to follow the maester. As soon as she was gone, he seized a young boy from the edge of his tunic and asked him to fetch him two flagons of wine. 

As soon as he was alone in the room he had choosen for himself, he sat on the small bed (whose mattress seemed to be filled with straw and rocks) and he sighed.

This day would surely prove a long one. 

 

"There, lady Stark. This room was assigned to you by Lord Clegane personally" Farad said, bowing to her and moving aside to let her in.

"Thank you" she smiled to him, and stepped forward.

The room was not a large one compared to her own quarters in Winterfell, but it was large enough. Sandor Clegane's room. it was comfortable, with a wide window, and a fire already burning in the simple fireplace. The bed was uncommonly large, like the man that usually slept on it, and she blushed at the thought, or rather at the memories that were surfacing again, of three bodies curned in a shivering bundle on the frozen ground, and Sandor Clegane snoring in her ear, keeping her awake more often than not. 

"Two maids will assist you" the man went on. "I am at your complete disposal, would you be in need of anything".

"That is very thoughtful of you" she said, politely. She hesitated. "Before you go... I wondered...".

"Yes, lady Stark?".

She shook her head. She did not know what she wanted to ask, so she asked nothing. "Nothing. This will be all, I thank you".

He took his leave and disappeared, and soon after two servants came, carrying a heavy bronze bathtub already half-filled with hot water. They vanished as well, only to return with three women. Each servant carried a heavy-looking bucket of water,and slowly, the tub was filled with steaming water.

Finally, she was left with two of the maids. O of them was of her own age, but the other was an elderly woman. The girl helped her scrubbing sway the dirt from her hair and her back, while the old woman, who introduced herself as Man, the housekeeper, shifted the logs in the fire to make it bigger.

 Sansa slipped into the bathtub, sighing in delight as the water closer around her naked, pale body.

"Tell me" she said, looking at Man, "how long have you been living here?".

"Ah, my lady, 'this hard for me to tell" the woman said, shrugging, her eyes lost in recollections. "Came here when I was younger than you. My father was master-at-arms here, for the Glovers. Died before your lord father was born". She put some more wood in the fire. "At that time the village was still inhabited, and stayed like that till King River's rebellion. I married a hedge knight from the castle, and never left it since... Not even when its fortune began to fade".

"Why was that?" Sansa asked. From what she had seen, Deepwood Motte was a well-positioned, well-built fort. The timber trade had always provided Deepwood Motte with a generous income, so Sansa had been almost disappointed to find that the place was left to itself as if forgotten.

Still, she liked it. there was nothing pretentious about it, nothing too superfluous, and yet it was lovely, there in the woods. Such a quiet place, and such quiet people!

"The place is far from any other villages. Trade happens only by the sea, but since the ironborn have taken a liking to this area, the risk of encountering pirates has scared more than a merchant away".

"I did not know any of this" Sansa said. "But perhaps something might be done. A few more men could offer a better protection".

Man smiled. "My lady, you are kind. However, winter is coming, as the Starks say. Not much trade anyway, and the war is more important than this".

Sansa nodded. "What are these?" she asked, pointing to a bundle of wool and linen that had been brought by one of the maids and that rested on the bed. 

"What? Oh, those" the woman said. "They are a gift, my lady, from Lord Clegane. Your dress is dirty, and I am told that you have not many with you. These were lady Glover's finest dresses, and my lord has offered them to you. No use to let them rot in a closet".

"That was... Thoughtful of him" Samsa said, reluctantly. She thought back at their ride. He had been in one of his gloomy moods, and returning to the castle had not helped. 

"You have had the occasion to speak with Lord Clegane, I presume, during his last visit?".

The woman shook her head. "No more than a few words, my lady. He is not a very talkative man, and I don't wonder. I have met men like him before - the war has given us plenty, though you might not know it, young as you are... Of course, I mean no offence by that, my lady" she quickly added.

"No, no" Sansa said, smilying wryly, "I am still very young, you are right". She raised a handful of foam from the tub and watched it dissolve slowly in her hand. "I see what you mean. About Lord Clegane. War must be dreadful, even for a strong warrior like him".

"War is war" Man said, simply. "And men change when they have to face it. Some of them heal from their wounds, but most are not so lucky. Healing requires time, and requires help. No one has ever healed on his own".

"He is a good man" Sansa said, more to herself than to the old woman. "He has saved me, you know. He brought me back, and asked for nothing in return".

Man gave her a sly look. "What men don't ask, they take nonetheless" she said. "Perhaps it is not my place to say it, however".

"Truth never offends me" Sansa said to reassure her, even though something in those words discomforted her, for they were not entirely true. "I know you are right, but your lord is a honest man".

"I dare say he is".

"How did you find him?". Sansa was curious. 

"Not very merry, that is for sure" Man said, carefully. "Always in his solar... Drinking".

"He drinks too much" she agreed. "Always did. That is his greatest fault. So you don't like him?".

"I think he is a good-natured man. Told Farad to pay us double, and never complained about anything. But he is a very unhappy man".

"Yes, he is" Sansa murmured. "Perhaps the Gods will show him the way, one day".

"He has eyes as well, my lady. No path is so well hidden that we cannot find it on our own".

"What if he is too drunk to find it, or too lazy to look for it, or too weary to reach it?" Sansa asked, jokingly.

"Why, my lady, that is what womer are for - we always know the way, although we may not tell them so, just to let them keep some pride".

"I see" the girl laughed, cheerfully, stepping out of the tub. "And what are men for, then?".

"What are the men to the Gods? Worshippers. All men do, they do for us; they would never admit it, but all they want is our love, and for us to be their home".

  
_Their home_.

"And everybody wants to have a home".

"Aye. That is all that matters".

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, first of all, I wish you all a happy new year, and I hope your new year's eve was a good and interesting one.   
> This is part three of this long chapter, which means next part will be the last and then we will all move on. Meanwhile, enjoy this.  
> By the way, thank you for the kudos and for the comments. You are very nice people, you folks, y'know that??


	10. The Hunt - Part 4 (and last)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fear haunts Sansa, and a dream haunts Sandor.

"Eat" Sandor Clegane said, and Sansa raised her head to look at him, distractedly. "I beg your pardon, my lord" she said. "What were you saying?".

His brow furrowed, his only eyebrow lowering as he frowned at her. "You are not eating" he remarked.

Sansa lowered her eyes to look at her plate. The meat pie was still untouched, and the vegetables that came with it she was chewing with scarce interest.

It was only the two of them, sitting at the small table!e in the small parlour of Sansa's rooms - or rather Sandor's. They had dismissed the servants after they had served the frugal lunch they were to have, but Sansa had not even thought of breaking the silence that had fallen over the two of them. She had not even been uncomfortable under her companion's dark grey scrutiny.

_They should be here by now._

The sky was already starting to bleed, but no sign of the hunting party had been detected, no hunting horn heard. 

  
_They promised to come back by sunset. Something has happened_.

Sansa forced another small piece of lettuce in her mouth, then another. Sandor was so calm, she noticed. Was he not worried for Rickon? Perhaps he was right, and there was nothing to be feared. 

_But they should be already here._

"Little bird". Startled, she focused again on Clegane, whose scarred face was grim and hard like a stone, and just as irregular in surface. His scars did not appall to her as they usually did. In fact, her eyes wandered from a hole to another, following every line the fire had painted on his gaunt cheek as her thoughts ran to the wood, to Rickon, to the danger awaiting him and his companions behind every bush...

"My lord?" she asked feebly.

"You should eat" he told her. "You are tired, and you need strength".

"Yes, you are right" she said, mechanically. She cut a small portion of pie and swallowed it. It tasted fine, she supposed, but she did not care. How could she, when her brother... Rickon...

He might be dead. Killed. Eaten by a beast, slaughtered by his men. 

Feeling a rush of sickness in her belly, she dropped the fork and pushed the plate away.

Sandor Clegane looked at her, and when she noticed, she found that his expression was very dark. "If you don't like it, I'll tell have something else made for you" he said, flatly.

"Please, don't trouble yourself" she said, shaking her head. "I don't think I could swallow a bite for my life".

She paused to look outside, but nothing could be seen but trees, trees, trees. Trees everywhere, and no Rickon.

He followed her eyes. "You worried about your brother?" he asked. 

She nodded. "He is late".

"Late?" he seemed incredulous. "Sun's still high. He won't be here before an hour, I'll tell you what".

"You don't think... Something happened to him?".

"Lannister is with him. Nothing will happen" he shrugged. "Don't trouble yourself on his account. He will be fine. He has that wolf of his - he would smell danger before it comes".

"I am sure you are right" Sansa whispered. "Yet I wish... I wish I was with him".

"And what could a small little thing like you do to protect him?" he asked, mockingly. "You'd be in everybody's way at the very best".

Sansa scowled at him. "How can you say such a thing?" she breathed. "Can't you tell how worried I am?".

His countenance softened somewhat at that. "Aye. No need to, though. He is the lord of Winterfell, and you cannot shelter him forever. The lad is smart for his age. He won't do anything foolish just to show off".

Sansa said nothing, but she was angry, truly angry with him. He spoke softly, but it was clear from his countenance that he did not understand her...

Slowly, the first tears appeared on her lashes. 

"Little bird...". He got on his feet, with some difficulty - his limp was vexing him since they had returned from the hunt - and moved to approach her, reaching for her...

She sprang on her feet. "Don't" she sobbed. "Don't call me like that. I am not a stupid girl anymore, and it is not stupid to care for my brother, just because you hated yours!".

She regretted those words as soon as they left her lips. He froze, and his entire body hardened, his face composing into a mask of fury. She saw him clench his fists as if trying to strangle an invisible monster, or a very dark thought.

"I-" she stammered, raising her hand to her lips in horror. "Sandor, I didn't...". 

For the longest of moments, she thought that he was going to yell at her, to shake her, to hurt her like he had done that day of the feast. Instead, all she wanted to say and all she expected him to do seemed to float around like dark, venomous smoke. 

Sandor Clegane stood there, silent and terrible, his scars stretching his mouth open in a growl that held nothing human. In the end, he relaxed,and he was Sandor again, only a man and nothing more, walking away, past her door, leaving her alone, worried and guilty.

 

Hours passed. Soon after he had gone, snow had appeared beyond the windows, and the sun had descended gradually to reach the trees with his flaming hands. 

Sansa, curled under the blankets, found that she had no tears to welcome the imminent night. Sne had cried and cried, and to no avail.

Now Rickon was truly late, and she knew that something had happened, and she had lost the privilege of a friend.

The fire was dying, but no servant had returned after they had taken away her unspoiled meal. The red coals still glared red, hot enough to warm her...

_They were hot enough to melt half of his face._

The bed was not as soft as hers, but it was comfortable. It smelled clean, and the furs were soft, but she could not sleep. Sleep was lost, perhaps forever.

_How will Rickon find his way in this storm?_

She was wrong; there were still tears in her, and she cried them all, breaking in a new fit of loud sobs. How could the Gods be so cruel with her? Were they deaf to every prayer, did they take joy in the sufferings of men?

_Men are worshippers._

"Mother, source of mercy, spare him. My little brother is all I have left. Crone, lead him safe to my arms with your wisdom, let him see another day. Warrior, give him strength, let him ride out of the storm". Her whispers were so thin she could not hear herself praying.

The room was darker and darker, and snow had swallowed all noises coming from the outside. Was it all lost then?

_No, no, not lost. Who says that? He is fine, I am sure he is fine. That is what Sandor said._

Yet snow and snow and snow, and no Rickon, and no hope, and...

The knocking on her door startled her. She had been, no, not asleep, but not quite awake. She sat up."Yes!" she cried. "Yes, yes, do come in".

"My lady". It was the joung maid called Thea, and she timidly walked in. "Lord Stark has arrived with Lord Clegane. He is being attended to as we speak".

Sansa was so agitated she nearly fainted. All went dark, until the little hand of Thea shook her. "Milady, milady, are you feeling ill?".

"No,no" she panted. "Help me dress, I beg of you". Oh, that Rickon could be there, safe, alive! The Gods had listened to her prayers, then!.

Overwhelmed as she was, it took her some time to process what the servant had said. As Thea was helping her with the laces of her corset, Sansa turned to her. "You said that my brother has returned with Lord Clegane. You must be mistaken. I was with him but three hours ago".

Thea seemed genuinely surprised. "Why, lady Stark, I thought he had told you. He went out just after that, to find lord Stark and escort him home, as the storm was nearing".

Sansa asked nothing else. She felt she could burst into tears again, not knowing for that.

When she was ready, she hurried downstairs, where Rickon and his companions were already assembling for dinner. A feast had been prepared for them, and Rickon was starving and dying to tell her every single detail.

"...you two were gone... a boar... two arrows, but they missed...".

Sandor Clegane was not there when the soup was served.

"...fell from his horse too... laughed... bruised his face, see...".

Sandor Clegane did not join them when the first courses were served.

"...snow... Shaggydog did hear them... three birds... said is was an excellent shot...".

Sandor Clegane was not seen even when the pies and cakes arrived.

"Tell me, sweetling" she asked Rickon, as the servants removed the empty plates, and the boy drew a deep breath to start with another tale, "how did Lord C!egane find you?".

"We were not far from here, but we were having trouble finding the way". Rickon shrugged. "He knew the place better".

"But why hasn't he come down to dinner?".

"He said he was tired" the boy answered, unconcerned. "But you know," he added in a low voice, "I think his leg hurt a little. He would never say that, however... Look, Sansa, lemoncakes!". He pushed the tray near her, and she looked at the small cakes without seeing them.

"No, thank you. I am not hungry".

 

In the dream, Sandor found himself in the small wood that bordered Clegane's Keep, and he was hiding. His brother was in one of his worst moods, and when that happened, people did their best to stay out of his way. The wood was the best place to hide, because Gregor hated it - he had always boasted that he would have it burned down for miles and miles as soon as he became the rightful owner of the keep. Whenever he said that, his father never uttered a word.

Why am I hiding? he asked himself. Gregor was twelve, and he was a man grown. He should look for him and kill him, and then his sister would be safe, his father would be safe... He would be safe.

Yet he was running through the trees, getting as far as he could from the small castle, seeking the peace and the quietness the forest would give him, embracing him in its leafy embrace like his mother had once done.

The more he ran, however, the more he found that he did not recognise the place. Every tree was twisted awkwardly, as in an omen of sadness and misery, and when he looked up, he saw that the treetops were on fire.

_Father is dead. Gregor will burn the wood, and I will burn down with it, again._

He ran and ran, a cold sweat streaming down his face, but he realised with horror, when he touched it, that it had washed away his flesh as well, leaving only blood and muscles and bone underneath, melting his features.

He fell on his knees and screamed, screamed, screamed, wishing that the fire would reach him in the end, because the Stranger was not on!y the only god he believed in - it was also the sweetest.

On the floor, he exaled smoke and blood, and he cried, until he heard something.

Someone was singing sweetly, far away, and he knew that he should follow that sound if he wanted to live. So he got up and put one shaking step after the other, even though he was limping, even though he was tired...

He emerged in a meadow, and he found that outside the burning wood behind him the sun was shining brightly, kindly. His flesh was tingling, his wounds closing, and he was a whole man again.

The Godswood was in front of him, the white tree was towering on any other tree, and under it was a girl clad in white, picking flowers, and singing.

_Why is she singing the Mother's hymn? The North remembers, the trees remember. They will resent her._

The girl had long, dark hair, curling around her like a veil, hiding her face as she picked a jonquil and raised it tenderly to her nose, inhaling its scent.

"Sansa!" he screamed.

She turned to him, and she smiled. "I was waiting for you, Sandor" she said, quietly, as if she had not noticed the world burning. And when he turned back, he saw that nothing was burning, and the trees were back, green and healthy as of untouched. 

"Come, we don't have much time" she said, impatiently.

_True, little bird, we don't have time. You never had much time, and it was never for me._

The flowers she had picked were scattered on the grass, forgotten. She laid on her back among them now, and the dew sparkling in the field was washing away the dye from her hair.

He did not remember asking her if she wanted him. There was no need of it. He knelt between her legs, and she was naked. "Do it now, Sandor, or we won't be able to go home".

Did Sandor want to go home, where his brother stood, waiting for him? Here, everything was quiet, and his scars had disappeared. He wanted her, however, and that was all he knew for sure. 

He was inside her before he knew, and she was tight and oh, so wet for him. She moaned prettily. She was ladylike even in the way she took her pleasure.

He moved inside her, grunting, and she said, yes. He sucked her nipples, and she said, yes. He touched her, and she purred like a happy cat, and who was the fool who had said that dogs and cats cannot get on well? 

"Deeper".

He shrunk deeper inside her. He fitted perfectly inside her, and they both knew.

"Deeper. Oh, Sandor, deeper, please".

I can't go deeper, he wanted to tell her, but he had no words. He wanted her, needed her, because she was the one, yes, the one that had broken the curse his brother had set of him, because all the fire could nor reach her, all the cruelty could not affect her, all the ugliness could not pollute her. She was a cure.

"Yes. Yes, like that, oh...".

He pushed harder, and harder.

"Little bird..." he rasped. "Little bird". He kept saying it with every thrust, sure this spell could keep them like that forever. Sansa Stark said nothing but her blue eyes were on him the whole time, like she could see him, truly _him_ , the man Sandor Clegane buried inside his wearied body.

It seemed to last a lifetime and yet it was not long, not remotely long enough. He peaked with her, feeling her body arch under his, against him, and as he spent inside her, for a brief second, Sandor reached some alien sort of peace, collapsing on her.

"Little Bird" he managed to say. "I love you".

"Then wake up" Sansa Stark whispered. "Wake up, Sandor".

And so he did. He was her dog, and he would obey her, always, forever.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soon with this ends this very long chapter. Let me know if you liked it ;)


	11. The fire that froze me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some people are kissed by fire... Does that make them lucky?

 

Sandor grunted his release and pulled away, rolling on his back. Next to him, the woman was breathing heavily, like she did after a good fuck. He did not look at her, but close his eyes, focusing on the pleasant emptiness that hovered on him like a moth dancing around a lamp.

The tent was dark, the small fire in the brazier languishing unattended. Outside, the camp had not stopped to witness his harsh coupling; men talked loudly, laughing or cursing, armours clanked, and the wind howled to cover any other noise.

It had been good to return to all this; the roughness of a war life, with its daily routine made of soldiers, disgusting food, steel, blood. This was what he was meant for - not the Lordship, nor the castle filled with people he abhorred, and not even the luxuries he had been surrounded with. No, that was not for him. In that world of knights and fair maidens he was a stranger, an unwelcome guest. 

His place was in a fight, always had been, although his bloodthirst had long abandoned him. He found he no longer enjoyed killing, but he did it all the same, and never stopped to think about it. 

He had men under him, and they all called him my lord, but soldiers were easily surmounted and never bothered him with unwanted courtesies. Nothing was expected of him but to swing a sword, yell orders and curses. No one cared, no one sought him for company.

He was alone at long last.

It had been hard at first to accostum himself again to it all - the hardships, the cold, the battles. His tigh hurt like the seven Hells, but he was stronger than most men, and used to pain. He hid his limp so well it was hard to tell he was in pain, and when it became too much, he had wine. Soon, it was like he had never left the battlefield, like he was still the Hound, and men were calling him that again.

Only, one thing had changed, one thing haunted him, never leaving him. Sansa Stark was his personal Hell, his punishment. For months he had stayed by her side, guarding her, protecting her, but never protecting himself from her... and now that he had left her he missed her more than he could have imagined.

The way she sometimes managed a quick glance at him, although his scars kept her at bay most of the times. The way she spoke to him, gently, like to a friend. A light touch here, a smile now and then, a word - now he was left without it, and he had never realised how much he relied on them.

Ten weeks had passed since they had parted, and they had parted like lady and sworn shield, nothing more. He had swallowed his rage and his bitterness and had knelt in front of her, reciting his words in front of her small court. She had been just as proper, but her blue eyes had been perturbated with something he could have sworn was regret. 

He knew she repented what she said, but he had never given her the chance to say it. Why not leave things like that? It was easier that way to detach himself from her, for now he had no reason to go back.

Only, he thought of her still, and with the fight and the violence surrounding him, making his blood boil, he was more in need of a woman than ever.

The woman on his left stirred like a happy cat, and he stole a glance at her.

Her name was Kerra, and she was a spearwife, one of the ten Stannis had sent to fight with his army. Most men had laughed at them at first, but after the first day in battle, they had stopped laughing. They were not as good with a sword as most soldiers, but with their spears they were lethal, and they were faster, and fiercer, and they were never afraid.

Kerra was tall and slender as a willow, and she had naught of the softness usually found in a woman.. Yet she was womanly. She was strong as she was deadly, and she had red hair. _Kissed by fire_ , the free folk said.  She had come to him one night, after battle, finding him alone in his tent and half drunk.

"You are the Hound" she said, that time.

"Aye. And who are you? One of the wildling whores?" he asked, his eyes scanning her figure. She had almost no teats, but she was pretty in her own way, and her hair of a flaming red. Not auburn, but glorious red, long and untamed.

She shrugged. "A whore? No need for that beyond the Wall. The free folks love freely". She eyed him, a smile curling her lips. "You are a fighter".

"I am a killer" he replied, though he doubted that he was. He had been, perhaps. Now he was nothing but a stray dog.

"You are so tall, taller than anyone else. There's people saying you have giant blood in you".

"Bullshit. I'm not even from the north". He eyed her in return, suspiciously. "Why are you here?".

"I saw you looking at me too. I thought you might be a good fuck, if you are as well-sized in your breeches as you are in height" she said casually.

"Well,bugger me if you aren't a forward wench". He was surprised, but even though he felt his cock stir in his leathers, he did not let her detect that he wanted her. He had heard that women beyond the walls had the same strong needs men had, that blood sang after a battle in their veins. it might be true, but how could he know it was not all a trick? Maybe Stannis had decided to get rid of him after all, and had sent a woman to cut his throat.

"Why, because I want to fuck you?" she laughed. "Your women must be queer indeed, if they don't ask for ithey want it. How do you know they want you?".

"You don't. You just marry them - your freedom for a cunt. Or you pay one with coin, if you are an ugly dog like me".

"How stupid" she noted. 

In the end, they had fucked, and Sandor had never enjoyed it so much. How much time had passed since he had last had a woman without paying her? 

Four weeks later, Kerra still visited him every night. They would do the deed in the dark, and when it was over, he would usually find her sound asleep next to him.

Rumours of the Hound's bitch had spread fast, but no one had dared mention it to him. He heard them all the same, when he walked at night through the camp, unseen. Harmless whispers, most of them, but not all. He heard one, joking on the dog and the redheads, and Sandor had almost killed him.

Kerra seemed to have taken a liking on him. By day she rode on his side, by night she stole into his tent. He let her, although he did not understand why she should seek his company. She made bawdy jokes, she asked questions, and she told him tales. If he was out of temper, she merely laughed, shrugged, and went on. She cared nothing about his scars, often japing they had both been kissed by fire - life was tough beyond the wall, and any scar was a token of strength to be cherished.

The woman moaned and stretched, and then opened her eyes. "Awake already, Clegane?" she asked, smiling. She found it hilarious that he should always wake up before her, or even before the sun. 'The dark is for ghosts, not for men, or dogs' she often told him.

He wanted to tell her the truth, that there was nothing funny about it. _The dark is for ghosts, and they all whisper to me,every night. But he die not wish to say that. His weaknesses were his and only his._

"Aye" he only said,"I am awake".

 

 

Tyana ended her paragraph, and Randa clapped her hands in encouragement. "Well, my dear, you are certainly a quick learner" she told her benignly, smiling. The poor girl blushed in pride, and Randa felt satisfied. She felt a great sympathy for the unfortunate wench.

Myranda Royce turned to Sansa, to find her glancing distractedly to the fire. since her return to Winterfell, eight weeks before, Randa had detected a want of spirit in her pretty young friend, and knew exactly what to blame for it. 

Randa knew loneliness well. The Vale was in itself a gloomy place, with few people that never changed. When freshly widowed, she had returned to her father, only to find the bloody gates even gloomier than her husband's lands and castle.

Randa had a sanguine temper and a cheerful disposition, however, and she had soon found that frequent feasts, copious amounts of wines and foods and talented singers were strong attractions for knights and ladies of scarce wealth and swollen prides... And since she was a widow, no trace of her transient liaisons could ever be detected. Who would care to expose her, anyway? She was no one, after all.

Sansa Stark, on the other hand, was quite a different matter. Company in the North was even scarcer than in the Vale, and smart company even scarcer. Sansa was a lively girl, although Joffrey Baratheon and Littlefinger had crushed any spontaneity in her, and intelligent. She could not but suffer for the lack of novelties the castle offered. Randa herself and Tyana, together with Rickon, were all the people she cared about.

It might do her some good to have a lover, but the girl was still a maid, and she had been right in saying her Maidenhead was worth more than any wealth, if used properly. Besides, who was there to tempt her?

Ser Jaime was a Lannister, and as such out of the question. The other men were all far below her in rank, and Sansa cared for none of them. Sandor Clegane was something like a friend to her, but he was gone, and Randa had other plans for him... when he would come back.

When Tyana left them to look for Maester Yrvin, a book in her hands and her eyes sparkling, Randa turned to her friend again.

"The poor girl is so sweet" she said. "You were right about it. She seems very refined for being only a bastard". She cast a malicious smile at Sansa."Though not as much as another Stone I used to know".

Sansa laughed. "You are impossible, Randa!" she said, brightening up as Myranda had hoped. "But I told you she was a treasure. I was sure you would like her if you spoke to her".

"I knew her father. He was not half as interesting, or as bright as she is". She had bedded him as well, but that she left unsaid. She had thought his age a guarantee of experience, but she had been disappointed there.

"She is bright. I hope to find her a good match in time... But not just yet. I doubt she would take a men in her bed now, after..." Sansa's voice trailed off.

"And perhaps" Randa added, "she is hoping for someone to notice her".

"I am sorry for her" the girl nodded, understanding her. "Ser Jaime has never been interested in any woman...".

"...but his sweet sister, I know. Things change, however. Stranger things have happened".

Sansa hesitated. "Someone has told me that life isn't a song" she said,quietly. "True love might be true, but it seldom ends well".

Randa had half an idea of who had told her such a thing. It was not good that she should treasure Sandor Clegane's words. Despite her disillusioned words, Sansa Stark was still young, and she was a romantic soul. She did not love her sworn shield, and she was not attracted to him... but still, at that age it was not uncommon for a girl to  fancy herself in love. Distance could help in this.

  
_If she was truly attached to him, I would not dare to interfere_. But... But...

"Sandor Clegane is wiser than some, perhaps" she said. "But he is not the best judge when the heart is concerned. A man like him knows nothing of love".

Sansa coloured slightly. "Yes, that is true" she said. Randa could tell she was picturing him, a drunken, ugly brute. 

_The girl is young. She thinks love is only for highborns and fine knights._

Perhaps it was not right of Randa to picture him like a heartless, coarse soldier. 

Any man has a heart, and he loves you... Or he is close.

But she did not tell her that. Sandor Clegane was right: fairy tales never came true, and true love never ended well. Even if Sansa loved him (and she did not), what of it? There was no hope for them from the start. Better open her eyes, before her fancy swayed her from the right path.

As to Clegane, Randa could take care of him. She had a good plan.

 

***

 

"Why do you keep coming here?" he asked her once.

"Uh?" she seemed genuinely perplexed as to his meaning.

"You come here every night. Why?".

She made a face. "Why not, Clegane?" she always called him that. She seemed to like the way it sounded on her tongue - she never called it any other way.

_Sandor. The bird called me Sandor, last time._

"Don't trifle with me, woman". He spoke flatly. "I have never made you peak, not once. You think I'm a buggering fool? I may enjoy fucking you, but you don't. So what is it that you really want from me?".

The woman laughed at him. "You men are fools" she said. "You all think sticking your cocks inside a cunt is enough to make a woman peak. We are different".

Then she took his calloused hand in hers, guiding his fingers to a little spot just below her soft, red curls. "Here is where you have to touch a woman, if you really want to please her" she told him. 

He pulled away his hand. "Then why would you want to fuck me?" he asked.

"People need touching, Clegane" she said, with a malicious grin. "And men sick with love need it most".

"I am not in love" he growled.

"Yes, you are".

"How would you now?" he questioned her, uncomfortable.

She eyed him with pity. "A woman always knows" she told him. 

 

***

 

"What happened to your face?" he asked her another time. She was late, and her left cheek was red and swollen.

"What? Oh" and she snorted in disgust. "One stopped me on my way here. He asked me whether I wouldn't like to fuck him, for a change. Said I was wasted with you".

"And you said no" he stated, flatly, though it surprised him to know someone might choose him instead of any other man. 

"I said I would sooner be raped by a rotting warg than be touched by him. He was the ugliest fellow I have even seen" she corrected him merrily. "He did not take it well. Are all men so very touchy here in the south?".

"Men don't like to be contradicted by a woman".

"Why?".

"That's the way of it here. Men rule, and women welp a bunch of ugly, mewling brats".

"And why do women accept it? Are they all weaklings like those stupid ladies in Stannis' court?" 

"Some are, and some are not".

_The little bird has some steel in her as well._

"Then they should fight back" _. Women don't need weapons to fight us_.

"You didn't" he pointed out. "You let him hit you".

"Oh, he hit me all right. Now I have a swollen cheek, and he is still trying to put his bowels back in place" she said, casually. "Stupid southrons. They are so easy to kill".

"Are you going to play me the same trick?" he grunted, half in jest.

"I never do it to my lovers, although I gelded one once, by mistake".

He found he did not care to know the particulars. "Did you have many?".

"Many" she nodded solemnly. "But you are the first since my mate died".

"What happened to him?" he asked. No need to be soft in his questionings, he knew; she was a tough woman.

"Winter happened. He said he would stay with me forever, but he lied. Men are not good at keeping promises". She sniffed, uneasily.

"No" he agreed, "not very good".

 

***

 

"Tell me about her" she said, another time.

"Who?" he spat, his eyes dangerously scrutinising her.

"The woman you love" she said, not at all impressed by his murderous expression. "Do I look a lot like her?".

"No" he admitted at last, perhaps because lying about her seemed wrong to him. "Not much".

"Oh. I thought that was why you wanted me" she said, almost disappointed."Then how is she like?".

"I don't want to talk about her" he barked.

"Yes you do" she laughed. She laughed at him very often. "You have never talked about her with anyone, have you? That is why you are burning from the inside".

"She has red hair, but not like yours" he said, after a long silence, and by his tone, it was clear that he would not tell her more. 

"Oh, I see. You love playing with fire, Sandor Clegane".

"I never liked fire" he snapped.

"Women are fire. They burn with feeling inside their heart, their waver and dance like flames, they lighten like sparks, they darken like ash". She jiggled. "That is what my mother said, you know. She called me lucky for my hair, but said that all women are kissed by fire, deep inside".

_The girl burned me with her innocence like Gregor did with the coals. She is a cold fire, the fire that froze me, and now all I feel is the cold._

He fucked her with renewed energy after that, burying himself inside her, looking for the flames she hid inside her, hoping they might melt the ice around his heart, and failing.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter ready at last! I hope I haven't disappointed you! Anyway, let me know what you think.  
> Next chapter is almost finished.


	12. Dangerous freedom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The dog is returning to his kennel.

 

 

Under the white God Tree Jaime Lannister sat thinking, barely aware of the rain falling like icy tears, incessant, implacable. The thick, dark red foliage formed a good repair against the shower, and since there was no wind blowing even the cold didn't seem to matter.

He had dreamt of far away, of the heat of a southern summer and the warmth of a pale, beautiful body he knew all but too well. 

Cersei.

That he should think of her was proof enough of his foolishness. He had once cherished those memories of desperate, unconditional love, of his self mirrored in his twin, his beloved twin, his other half. Her beauty was unparalleled; soft, creamy skin, pale like milk but bright like moondust, eyes so deep and green like shadowy fields of emeralds. His other half, yes, his best half, he thought once.

Her love had been true, he knew. The blood they shared linked them, and every time their eyes locked, the whole universe quivered and resounded like the chord of a fiddle touched by the finest of bards. He had never doubted that it could not be enough. He had failed all the world, but her he had never failed, and that love he had cherished with pride.

  
_That love was my greatest sin, worse than kingslaying, worse than betrayals and lies_.

Cersei loved him, but did it matter? She lusted for power as much as she lusted for him. She was haunted by dreams of greatness, and she would sacrifice everything to turn those feverish delusions into reality.

He did not regret having loved, as he did not regret leaving her once all loved had proved vain. That ugly wench had woken something else in him, making him wonder whether something else of good had been buried inside him, strangled by his love for Cersei but still surviving.

For that honour, Brienne of Tarth had payed with her life. She had led him into a trap, to face the ghost of Catelyn Stark, but then she had refused to kill him.

_She died for me. She died so that I could find my honour._

But Cersei was in his dreams, another severed hand he felt though he no longer owned her. A shadow limb, a shadow heart, and she would never, never leave him.

"I did not think I would ever see a southerner keeping the old faith" a voice came out of the rain. He turned. "Is it a common thing at Castelry Rock, or are you simply turning into a cold, hard northerner yourself?". Myranda Royce was smiling.

"None of the two, my lady" he said, smiling back and raising respectfully to welcome her. "I was never the pious man. The Gods, whomever they may be, can surely manage well even without my prayers".

"My, my, what a wicked man!" Randa said, shaking her head in mock incredulity. 

"Way beyond redemption, I fear" he replied, with unconvincing compunction. "What about you, then? I know the blood of the first men still runs in those who call the Vale home. Do you worship the Seven?".

"Oh, I am irretrievably ruined myself" she laughed. "Even my septa had to give up on my since I was little more than a child".

"What a loss for the Faith".

"Never has a septa been so relieved to resume her charge". She stepped under the branches, sheltering from the rain. "I wish it would not rain so much. Even a snow storm would be better than this".

"May I offer to escort you back to the castle, then? You do not want to catch a cold in this weather" Jaime offered.

The woman shrugged. "In time. I wish to speak one word with you".

Such a forward lady.

He liked her the better for her bluntness. "At your service, of course".

"I assume you have heard the news" she began then, with no further ceremony, stepping closer to touch the white cork of the weirwood with her fingertips.

"You are referring to the king's army, I suppose".

"They will be here in a week, maybe less, from what I gather".

"That was what Lady Sansa told me this morning".

She cast a penetrating glance at him. "Why?".

"My lady?" he asked,feigning ignorance.

"Stannis is winning. The Iron Throne is too busy fighting the dragon princeling, this would be the right time to strike. To return North now might prove fatal to us all".

"The greatest part of our army remains at the Twins" Jaime noted. "Those who are coming are but few".

"It will still be a loss".

"Perhaps. But Stannis is fighting another battle".

"Do you believe it then? Do you believe that the Others are awake, after eight thousand years?".

"I don't know" he confessed. "Still, the dead are rising. I saw one myself". Catelin Stark had been dead, and yet she had stared at him and whispered a sentence of death, and Brienne had died, hit by arrows.

She should have died sticking a sword in a foe's body, but they got her.

She shrugged. "Be as it may, this is not what I wanted to talk about" she said. 

"Then what is it that you want to tell me?".

"Sandor Clegane is coming North as well".

Jaime was surprised. "Aye, my lady, he is. He has served Stannjs as commanded. He took prisoners as well when they conquered the Twins. He comes back in honour".

"I am sure of it. Sansa Stark is just as sure, I'd bet".

Sansa Stark. He furrowed his brow. He had noticed that the girl felt some twisted sort of affection for the Clegane lord, although it was not love, or lust. "He is her sworn shield".

"And her saviour. And Sansa is his lady, but she is still a girl, and though she says she has grown, she still retains some sort of fondness for her songs and stories".

"What are you trying to say?".

Randa smiled. "I don't think that her affection for the man should be encouraged. Robb Stark did foolish things for love, and even the honourable lord Stark sired a bastard".

"What lady Stark feels is not love".

"No" she agreed. "But for how long? He is a coarse, simple man, but he is a lord now - not so base anymore. She might learn to regard him in an higher light when he returns a winner".

"What would you have me do?".

"I want to protect her" Randa said. "Speak to her, guard her against him. For my part, I mean to deal with Clegane myself".

He understood. "Do you plan to set your cap on him?".

"Why not. He would be as good a husband as most, maybe even better. And my little friend would be safe".

"Are you doing it for her?" he asked then, "or for yourself?".

"Both" she said, simply.

"Both" he repeated.

"I want a husband, and Sansa Stark is not the girl for Sandor Clegane. At least, not in this world. My septa used to say that the Gods have made us free, but freedom is dangerous".

"Yes, very dangerous indeed".

 

Almost thirteen weeks had passed since the last time he had set his eyes on Winterfell. Eighty-nine days, and he had counted them one by one. Thirteen weeks, and he had drowned every day in blood and wine, every night in Kerra’s flaming hair.

The castle seemed to grow like a gigantic heart-tree in the middle of the woods, so great it was impossible not to spot it, even through the snow falling mildly, lazily from the grey sky. Sandor looked at it, and fighted the irrational impulse to kick Stranger’s side and leave the men behind and ride. He would rush beyond the gates, inside the castle, up the stairs, into the girl’s room…

Instead, he grunted and spat on the snow, while Stranger slowly followed the column of men heading to Winterfell. Bending on the side, he took the flask of wine he had tied to Stranger’s saddle and empied it in a few, large gulps. He needed to be drunk, so drunk it would not hurt him to return, to see her again.

A part of him thought again of following those men to the Wall. There he could not expect to fight. He did not believe the tales of ice ghosts and walking corpses. Yet he could still train, and the cold would perhaps keep his thoughts at bay.

He knew he would not do it.

“It is so big” Kerra said.

“’tis nothing compared to the Wall”.

“The Wall is just a wall, made of ice and hate. This is a house. Would that I could call it home” she sighed. She was to go north too, with the spearwives, but Sandor knew she longed for the South, for lands not covered in ice and snow and places to lead a peaceful life. He almost envied her that dream. He had nothing of the sort. He was not afraid of death, and he never thought of the future – there was no more happiness ahead of him than there was in his present.

All that was ahead of him was the girl, damn her.

It seemed to take forever, and Sandor thought of another journey north, the one he had made as Joffrey’s sworn shield. How many years ago had it been? Not even five. Four years ago there had been peace, and only one king for Seven Kingdoms. He had cared for nothing, for no one, but now… redemption tasted like ashes in his mouth. His walls of rage and bitterness were gone, and he was naked and weaponless against an enemy he could not fight. 

If the Gods were true, if the septons were not only babbling fools, then why would they give him a lifetime of misery? He was meant for the Seven Hells anyway, him and his shitty brother. Were they so eager, so anxious that they could not wait for his miserable life to end, before they punished him? 

And if the Gods were naught but myths, nothing but stories and songs, then why was it all so damn hard? If there was no Fate plotting against it, why had the odds been so much against him?

_I want nothing but her, and she’s all I can’t have. I cannot take her, and no one will ever give her to me._

And how foolish was it, that notwithstanding it all, he was almost pissing in his breeches in excitement at the sole idea of seeing her again?

“You wouldn’t like living in one of this shitholes, trust my word”.

“Why not?” she was curious.

“You would have to dress like a woman, to start with” he said, feeling some sort of twisted pleasure in crushing her harmless dreams. “With corsets to squeeze your teats – if you had them – and the Gods know what else”.

“They couldn’t force me” Kerra said, indignantly. 

He shrugged. He did not want to talk to anyone. The small distance separating him from the castle seemed never to shorten. 

“Does she live here?” Kerra asked, after a while, lowering her voice. “The girl you love?”.

He did not answer, pretending not to hear her. 

“She is there, isn’t she? You can’t even sit still, impatient as you are to see her”.

He gave her a look so dark most seasoned warriors would have wet their breeches in fear, but she didn’t even flinch. She seemed to know he would never harm her for stating the truth. Women always know, she had said. He began to think it was nothing but the truth.

 


	13. Honour leaves scars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sandor Clegane has returned to Winterfell.

 

Tyana had never been half as happy as she now was in Winterfell. The bastard daughter of a nobody would never have dared mix with higher society, but Sansa Stark was different - good-hearted, well-bred, thoughtful and elegant. 

Not a year before, she dressed like a servant and was hardly treated as more than one. Now, however, she wore Sansa's very clothes, slept in her very bed, spent her time with her, and when there were no guests in the castle ate at the higher table.

Moreover, no one was disturbing her, nodody used her ill. The castle was empty most of the times, so there were not many men to be afraid of.

And there was one, a golden-haired knight, handsome and fearless like in the songs, and gallant, and...

She checked herself in time. There was no use in thinking of Jaime Lannister. He was too high above her, a Lannister of Casytelry Rock, and...

She focused on the three dresses she had laid in front of Sansa Stark. The first was a dark red dress made out of velvet, with golden leaves embroidered on the corset. The second was one of her lady's favourite, made out of silk and silver and shining like the moon. The third was of a night blue, of warm yet soft wool, the plainest and yet not at all inferior to the other two.

"What do you think, lady Sansa?".

"I really cannot say" the lady murmured. Tyana knew something was grieving her, but she did not know what, and hardly knew how to help her.

"Mayhaps you should choose the blue one" Tyana suggested. "It is cold outside, and we cannot know if you will need something more substantial than silk".

The guests had arrived an hour ago, and Sansa Stark had sent her servants to attend to those of consequence, and Maester Yrvin to deal with the accommodation of the common men-at-arms. Dinner would be served at sunfall, and not much time remained before she would have to step into the great hall.

"I wish I could. Those petty lords might take it as an offence, and say I didn't bother enough".

Tyana nodded. "I suppose the grey one will do then. It bears the Stark sigil, and it looks so well on your figure!" she said in pure, genuine admiration. To her, Sansa Stark bore no equals, both in beauty and in disposition.

Lady Stark smiled at her. "You are too warm in your praise, Tyana" she said. "The grey dress will not do, however. I put it at the goodbye feast, you'll remember. I must wear something else. I believe the red one is good enough, and warmer too".

"Of course. And it goes very well with your hair, my lady. How will you wear it?".

The Stark girl thought about it. "Down, I think" she said.

As Sansa Stark stepped out of her nightgown, Tyana hesitated. there was one thing she wished to know. "My lady".

"Yes, my dear?".

"I wonder... Is that man, that Sandor Clegane returned as well?".

The lady of Winterfell turned to her in amazement. "Of course he will. He is my sworn shield" she said. "Why do you ask?".

"Nothing" Tyana muttered. She didn't want to admit a simple truth: that of all men, he frightened her the most. 

Sansa sighed. "I don't know why people are so concerned about him. Jaime Lannister spoke to me yesterday after dinner, and he was asking queer questions about him".

"I am a little afraid of him" Tyana confessed. "He looks so ugly, and so angry".

"I was afraid of him as well" Sansa smiled. "When I first met him, I thought he had been sent by the gods from one of the Seven Hells. I was a silly girl".

"Even if he is not a demon, he still is a terrible man. I heard tales of his family. His brother..."

"...was the real monster. Sandor Clegane has suffered the most by his hand" her blue eyes seemed to wonder away from there, to scenes of old nightmares. "He chased us to Winterfell, and he almost killed us".

"Didn't he die from the Red Viper's poison? I heard the Lannisters had sent his head to Dorne".

"The head. The body was left behind, and revived by some dark magic".

Tyana tried to imagine it - a dark shadow wearing an armour, a headless soldier, a monster made of hate.

"What happened?" she whispered.

"He almost killed his little brother. Gregor was raising his sword over his head. I took Sandor's sword and hit the Mountain on the helm, but it came off, and there was nothing under it" the lady said, calmly. "I fell and he tried to slay me. I stabbed him, but he didn't stop". She sighed. 

"And then..?".

"Sandor burned him" Sansa said, simply.

Tyana paused. "He is brave, anyone can see that. I suppose you are grateful to him for saving you".

"I entrusted him with my life. I know it doesn't look like it, but he had honour".

"And yet he is a killer".

Sansa Stark seemed to consider her words with attention. "Yes" she said. "He is".

 

"Will you take any more pidgeon pie, my lady?" the servant asked her.

  
_If he asks me again, I'll stab him with the cheese knife_ , Sansa thought darkly. She stretched her mouth in something that looked only vaguely like a smile. "No, thank you, Gilles. Tell the servants to take away the dishes. Bring the cakes in".

"The cakes?" he asked, doubtfully. "Is my lady sure? Perhaps we should wait a little longer, and-".

  
_Doesn't he understand how much I want to end this farce? The sooner we're over with this, the better_. "I am sure" she said, warily, and the boy ran away to tell the servants to hurry up with the desserts.

The great table had been set again in the hall, to accommodate Stannis men. This time, however, they were not the same lords she had welcomed for Clegane's ceremony. 

They were generals and knights, with great appetite and little taste for conversation. This suited her present taste more than anything else; she was in no mood for politeness, or for people, or mankind in general... And in particular with the man on her left, who was studying any possible way to avoid her eyes and her words since his return the day before.

He had not held her chair to help her sit. When she had smiled to him, after being seated, he had immediately looked away as if his eyes had passed on her for accident. When she had asked him the salt, he had pushed it slightly towards her without even turning at her.

She was out of patience with him... yet she knew she deserved such a cold demeanour after their last argument. How crule had it been of her to speak of his brother like that. He had been the most wicked of men, and he had ruined Sandor's life forever. She had been insensitive - no, worse than that. She had wanted to hurt him, perhaps hoping it could make her feel better.

It was not so. Guilt was bitter enough on its own, but having a friend alienated from her was even worse. She wanted to ask his forgiveness, but did not know how. Sa for Clegane was avoiding her with such great care, she had almost expected him not to appear at dinner.

Perhaps she could have borne it better, if he had been silent and cross with anyone. He was a grim, solitary man after all, with no passion for conversation and no inclination to society. 

Oh, he was cross and silent with her all right, and so with any other man... but not so with one of the spearwives, whose name Sansa didn't remember. Well, he did not speak himself voluntarily, but he did answer her questions and remarks, and with some of the gentleness Sansa was used to see in him when he spoke to herself. Brief retorts, curt remarks he gave, and still it was more than Sansa herself received.

"Lady Stark".

Elwood Meadows was looking at her in concern, and she endeavoured to flash a smile to him. He was a polite young man, handsome enough and gallant to a fault. If her opinion of fine lords had lessened after her sojourn in King's Landing, her exasperation had quite the opposite effect.

Well-bred people were better than some, for at least they could be agreeable, and show some compassion, some thoughtfulness, some respect.

"You look flushed, my lady".

"It is quite hot in there. So many people all together... It has been a while since the last time I have been surrounded by such a crowd". 

"I hope the change is not for the worst" he said, charmingly. With the corner of her eye, she caught a small flinch coming from Sandor Clegane, and she wondered if he was listening to her. But of course he could not be doing it - he did not seem to care about her in the slightest.

"Such company could hardly be unwelcome" she answered the young lordling, with a malicious smile that was complacently received.

"If you say so, what should I say?. To be among civil people again, and in the presence of such perfect beauty and accomplishment, is the best refreshment after a long champaign" said Meadows then.

"You are all politeness, my lord. I deserve no such praise" she laughed, pleased to see that her little coquetry was being received so positively. "But I am happy that my household has been able to afford you some comfort. I can hardly imagine the hardships of a soldier's life".

Lord Elwood laughed pleasantly. "They have not been so great, I assure you. Men of rank are not without privileges, even in war. No, my lady" and he flashed a brilliant smile at her, "naught was as bad as your absence. _That_ I felt more acutely".

She giggled. She knew he was flirtatious in nature, and without serious thoughts, and would not deny herself some harmless flirting... Especially when she felt so slighted in another front.

"You should be ashamed of yourself" she said.

"I cannot be, when such beauty is involved".

She frowned at him in mock reproach, and thus ended their conversation.

Turning the other way, she met Jaime Lannister's gaze, and looked away. He was watching her intently, and she did not wish him to. She still resented him for what he had told her two days ago.

He had been vague, and had tried to look unconcerned, but he had meant to guard her against Sandor Clegane. She had managed to laugh all his doubts off, but she almost repented showing such faith in the lord of Deepwood Motte now.

With the small army, news had also arrived. Some of her own guards she had talked to, and they had told her stories of battles and hardships, and many had involved the Hound. Men had been murdered, slaughtered even under his command, or by his own hands.

Sansa poured herself some wine. She was... Disappointed. She had been sure she had some influence on Sandor Clegane, of a positive kind.

_He rode in the storm to make sure Rickon would find his way. For me. I know it was for me. we were good friends._

And now not only he was ignoring her, he was the Hound again, killing and mocking and slighting and hating.

Two glasses of wine later, she resolved to speak to Clegane again. Perhaps he was a little queer after three months on the battlefield, and since they were friends, she ought to forgive him. He was drinking as well, though not as tipsy.

"Did you enjoy the pidgeon pie, my lord?" she asked him in a low voice. No one was minding them, so she thought he might answer her with more ease.

He looked at her, bowed his head slightly, and resumed his drinking.

"And what about the oysters? You might not have noticed, but we have a new cook now. His oysters are deemed to be far better than those we had before your departure".

He drank another sip, and cleared his voice. "My lady is too kind to ask" he said, so spitefully she could not pretend to miss the irony in his voice.

She bit her lip and for some minutes elapsed into silence again. "I know why you are so mean with me" she whispered in the end. "I know you are still angry for... Last time. I am sorry".

She hoped he would give her a nicer answer, his voice softened. Instead, he gave her a blank look, and ignored her.

Sansa turned away from him, feeling mortified and angry. _But_ , she thought, _it is all his fault. I apologised. he should have forgiven me. Jaime Lannister was right, he is a wicken man. I was wrong in caring so much about him._  


 

The worst was over. She had spoken to him, and he had been crude, and uninterested, and spiteful.

_Let the girl think you don't care. It will be better off this way, for her as well._

Yes, let the girl think he was a brute. She would soon hear about all the things he had done, if she hadn't already. It was no worse than the other men had done, but she would never know. She would never know that he loved her, never know that he craved her, that he was sick of blood and rage.

Winter was there, and had returned worse than ever after a false spring. Mayhaps the world would turn into ice and they would all die. He was cold already, cold with solitude, cold with remorse, and she was never to be his, never.

 

The cell was cold and damp, and smelled of moss, abandonment, and decay. From the door it was impossible for Sansa Stark to discern much of the trembling figure that lay in a corner, for there was no window to cast a gleam of light inside the small room.

"The lamp" she commanded, and Jaime Lannister stepped forward and handed it to his lady. The bundle of ragsmoaned and balled up to cover himself from the new source of light.

The small fire trapped inside the glass was still not enough to reach every corner of the cell with its deem glow, but the gold in the prisoner's hair was clearly discernible, as was the blood that had dried on his face and clothes.

  
_Is the blood Clegane's work?_ He was the one who had taken him prisoner, she knew. She turned to maester Yrvin, one of her eyebrows arching in displeasure. "Who brought him here?" she asked.

It was Jaime Lannister that answered her. "My men, my lady. I told them that the hostage should be kept away from the others, lest he should be seen" he said, respectfully. Still, it was clear that he did not like the accommodation himself. "I did not think they would put him here".

"Have his wounds been attended to?".

Maester Yrvin sniffed in embarrassment. "There has not been the occasion yet, my lady. I had our soldiers to dispose of first".

Sansa paused. "I will speak with him now" she decided, voicing her thoughts aloud. "When our interview is over, make sure he is removed to a decent room, and that his wounds are taken care of. I will not tolerate any slight to him, understood?".

"As you say, lady Stark" Lannister bowed.

"Leave us,then. You can wait upstairs".

"Is it safe, my lady?" Yrvin seemed worried.

"He cannot harm me".

"Very well".

Sansa waited for their steps to fade, before she entered the cell, closing the heavy door softly after her. 

"Ser Daven".

If the man had heard her, he made no sign to let her know. Sansa slowly bent and left the lantern on the floor, next to the door. When she approached him, he stirred slightly, and finally turned to face her.

Ser Devan Lannister was not a handsome man. With a pug nose and a prominent chin, she doubted he had ever been more than plain to look at, and she knew that the battlefield took its tool of all men. He had grown thinner after his capture, and his nose had been broken several times.Still, his bloodshed eyes were of a clear, pure grey, and they scanned her readily. 

Sansa had never met him, but he knew him by fame, as the son of Stafford Lannister and a blunt, hard, intelligent man.

"Do you know who I am, ser?".

"You are the Stark girl. Or are you a Lannister still, lady Sansa?".

If I show myself weak, he will know. I must not bend. 

"The marriage was never consummated, ser Devan. I have long cast aside the name Lannister, with the blessing of the Seven. I am Sansa Stark, lady of Winterfell".

"You are a traitor, like your father and your brother before you". His voice was painfully hoarse, for he had not spoken for a long time.

She could have said something poisonous. She knew Cersei would have. Instead, she moved towards him, hiding the fear she felt in getting closer to him. He was in chains, but a shrewd man might have hurt her all the same.

"This is not of you to decide, Ser Devan, but I will not resent you. You know not the truth".

"The truth?" he asked, spitefully, though his gaze showed that her voice, soft and firm, startled him.

"You serve your family, and I serve mine. The gods would slight us if it was otherwise" Sansa told him. "But Tommen is not the rightful king. He was born of incest between Cersei and Jaime Lannister".

"That is all? You hide yourself behind a lie, but you have no proof".

"Ser Jaime Lannister is the very reason I am here. He has confessed the truth to me. If you wish, he might repeat it to you as well".

His eyes showed for the first time some sort of fear, or distress."'So it is true, then? Is Jaime really here?".

"He saved my life, Ser Devan. I may hold a grudge against your family, but I owe him all my gratitude, as I owe it to Tyrion". Sansa squatted by him, not wanting to look at the man from upside down. She fixed his blue eyes on him. "If you think my goal is to crush you, you are wrong".

"You support Stannis' cause".

"He is protecting the realm. Can you truly say you are doing the same?".

_Those who swear to protect something are lying. They are all liars._

Ser Devan kept silent.

"There is blood between the Starks and the Lannisters. I am not a child anymore - and that I owe to some of your kin. If it is war you want,you will have it, and perhaps you will win it - but do not presume to call it a just cause". Her voice was hard as steel now. 

"If it is not power that you want, what is it?" the man provoked her.

  
_I want to be loved_ , Sansa thought. _I want to be in peace, and to be loved, and to love_. But she did not want to say it to him. She wasn't sure she could escape being bitter.

"What if not to protect my family?". 

He scrutinised her for some time, but Sansa had more to say. "You are a brave man and a highborn one. I must apologise for the treatment my men have inflicted you. You will be moved to more suitable quarters and my maester will look at your wounds, if you consent to it. You will not be allowed to wander the castle freely, but you will receive all the comforts your rank entaitles you to". She paused. "We will send a message to Castelry Rock to inform them of your capture, and you will be sent home as soon as an arrangement is made. If you wish to propose some terms yourself, you may speak with ser Jaime of it. What do you think of it?".

"Are you asking me?" Devan asked, incredulously.

"Who else?" She retorted, blushing slightly. It was not fit for a lady to be so kind towards a prisoner, she realised.

"I thank you, my lady" he said, after a moment's pause. "You have shown... Honour".

_I thought I knew a man with honour, but he is just a killer, like you are, like all men are._

"My father had honour" she said, flatly, straightening herself and fetching her lamp. "They cut his head because of it".

When she closed the cell, she was not surprised to see a huge man standing with his back on the wall next to her. Sandor Clegane looked at her gravely. "Got what you looked for?" he asked in his raspy voice.

_He is the one who hurt ser Devan. Tyana was right. He might not be what he used to be,but he is a killer still._

A killer, a killer,a killer. Those words rang in her ears. She had welcomed him as a friend, but even her enemy - even Devan Lannister had shewn more grace than him. What did it say of her, if she had such a man as a friend?

  
_No, it should never be._  

"I found only a man" she replied, leaving him there, wondering why she felt a bundle of guilt in her as she detached herself from the man who had been the Hound.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a longer one, but not quite as satisfying as I wanted it to be. Well, next one will be better, so don't judge me too hardly... You will see!


	14. Resounding loneliness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things are changing in the North, and people are as well.

 STANNIS BARATHEON never smiled, they said. They had said the same about Tywin Lannister, but there had been a time in with the lion had known how to smile – until his beloved wife had died of childbirth (and the same dwarf that had caused her death had been the one to kill Tywin himself, if the rumors were true).

Stannis was another matter. He had no sanguine temper, unlike his siblings, and for that he had always been less loved both by the smallfolk and the lords of the court – and, he suspected, even by his mother and father. There was no place for a man like him, a man of much honor and little love.

The closest thing he had ever had to a friend was the Onion Knight, but a king could have no friends. The Throne was his by right, and Stannis was going to claim that right, however unpleasant it would be to him, and it seemed it would be much more inconvenient than one could possibly have imagined.

  
_She has left me_ , he though for the umpteenth time, his eyes fixed grimly  on the dancing flames in the earth. 

Melisandre of Asshai, the red priestess. She had sworn that she would always serve him, and he had believed her. She had borne him demons, she had made him kill his brother, and yet she was gone as she had come, and she was nowhere to be found.

  
_Wait for me, my King_ , she had said, the big ruby around her neck shining darkly as she spoke. _The Lord of Light has called, and I must answer, but return I must, and I will. Have Faith_.

But how could he do it? How could he have Faith when the cold night was falling longer and longer, and his men whispered that R'hllor had abandoned him? How could he have Faith, when Cold itself had taken form under his eyes, and his power seemed no more than a grasp of ashes to be blown away by the winter wind?

_She has left me._

The South was doomed, he knew. This dragon prince, if that was who the boy truly was, had already taken the Stormlands, and Dorne was siding with him. With Myrcella as an hostage, and with a powerful army to support him, it would not be much long before he won. And that brought a question – how could Stannis stand a chance against him? How was he to establish his right, when he had no forces, and when thousands of miles stood between him and the Iron Throne?

  
_I was not meant to be a king. My men don’t love me, and they never will._ Yet the Throne was his, and for that he would fight, and perhaps die.

He thought of those men who were returning from the South. He would need to welcome them. He hoped Winterfell could offer them a slight relief before the battle started again, but he did not like to think of the castle, or the Stark inhabiting it.

He still had to decide what was to be done with the Stark girl. She seemed young and innocent enough, but Littlefinger could look a saint as well. How was Stannis to know she wasn't a snake ready to bite its master?

  
_She is into this as well,_ he said to himself. _If we fall, she goes down as well._  


Somehow, this wasn't enough.

The flames were the only source of light in the cold room. Castle Black was not a place fit for a king, but there he had returned to watch men be slaughtered by corpses. The Brothers of the Nightwatch were hardly of help; they had chosen Cotter Pyke for a Lord Commander, but he had died as his predecessor, and now it seemed that the Nightwatch was crumbling to pieces and no one had yet been chosen to take his place. How many deserters had there been, only the past week? And where did they hope to run, when Winter was chasing them all?

Jon Snow came to his mind then. Strange as it was, he had liked the boy. Ned Stark had taught his bastard well, and he had had all his father’s honor. It had grieved him to learn of his fate. All men must die, they said in Essos. One day, his time would come as well. Before that, however, he had things to do.

 

Men prayed for many things. Some asked for strenght or for riches, so that they could live comfortably and be feared. Others asked for love, or happiness - for themselves, for others.

Kerra asked for no such things. Every time she knelt in front of an heart tree, all she did was listen, and talk. She hoped that, wherever they were, the Gods might listen to her, and after a while, she always felt less lonely.

Not that she suffered for her solitude during her long days. She trained with the spearwives, fucked a man or the other, she walked, she ran, she danced, she laughed, she sang. Every time the sun rose again from behind the snowy treetops, she was happy to have outlived another night, and thankful that her time had not yet come.

Ben after the death of her father, she had not been unhappy. Her mother had been a cheerful woman, and to protect her, Kerra had trained since she was five in order to become a warrior. She had succeeded, and life had always smiled upon her. She was young and beautiful and strong.

Nights were another matter.  When silence fell on the earth, swallowing every resemblance of life, she remembered that she had nowhere to cling to - her mother had died of illness, her mate had been found frozen in a ditch some months earlier.

A week more, and she would return to the Wall, return to the fight and the nightmare of walking corpses and gods of darkness and fire. Until then, Sandor Clegane would do, but then, she would be alone again.

"Sandor Clegane is a good man" she said, her cheek against the milky bark of the weirwood. "I will miss him, I feel lonely already".

The trees never answered, but she didn't care. It was good to talk and to be listened to.

"I have seen the girl he loves. She is very beautiful" she went on. "And she is just like the ladies in the songs. A precious, delicate thing".

Women beyond the wall could never aspire to such beauty, not even those who mated with powerful men and held a better life. The girls dwelling inside a castle, warm and well-fed, with baths and fire at their disposal, as well as maids to attend with them and beautiful dresses to wear, were as frail as charming.

None was half as beautiful as Sansa Stark, however.

"He loves her because she is gentle and pure and beautiful" she added, as if taking notes. "I don't think she knows".

She had watched Sansa Stark carefully from the very start, when the lady had made her entrance in the Great Hall, auburn hair curling around her pretty, heart-shaped face. Auburn hair, like Clegane had told her, and turning to him, Kerra had seen him turn to stone, jaw clenching in a struggle to compose himself. His grey eyes, however, were a sea of pain and devotion. His vulnerability had been enough to convince her of the truth.

Sansa Stark moved as if dancing through the Hall, and his eyes had followed her greedily, his fists clenching. Yet he had been composed in his greetings to her, and ever since.

"I don't understand these people. I don't understand this girl, either. Why wouldn't she want him? He is strong and brave. He should tell her that he wants her and be done with it, but he doesn't".

She wanted to say something else, but there was a noise behind her. She turned. Sansa Stark was coming slowly towards her, and it was only when a few yards from the tree that she noticed Kerra.

Sansa seemed startled, but she smiled at her politely.

"Come to pray to the Gods?" she asked, her voice ringing like bells. 

Kerra smiled back. She felt a strange connection with this girl that Clegane loved. "I would not say pray" she said, as the other girl approached her. "I just talk to them. I wonder how you pray to your Gods, here in the South".

Sansa Stark touched the tree, caressing it softly. "I ask them for strength and wisdom" she said, "I ask them to show me the way. But mostly, I thank them for watching over me".

"Do you think that the Gods protect us, then?". Kerra wasn't familiar with such an idea. Why would the Gods care about men, when even men themselves scarcely worried about their kin?

"My mother was from Riverrun - a place far, far away from here, south of the Neck. They worship Seven Gods, and they are but one, a seven-faced God" Sansa told her. "The Gods of the North are much colder, but in the South, they love their human children".

Kerra took her time to think about it, but she was unconvinced. She still didn't understand why a God should love a worthless thing like a man - a breakable, worthless, mortal sack of flesh.

"You are one of the spearwives" Sansa went on, after a long pause. "Your name's Kerra, isn't it?".

"Aye" Kerra said. "You are the lady of the castle. A Stark, isn't it? Like the girl Bael loved".

"I know that story. It was a favourite of mine when I was a child" Sansa said, her blue eyes shimmering enthusiastically. "I even went down to the crypts once, to see the place where Bael had kept his princess. I hoped to see her ghost, but I got afraid, and I ran away".

"Why would you run from a ghost?" Kerra asked, sincerely puzzled. "It cannot hurt you, it is known".

"Yes, but I was very young" Sansa protested. "Children are easily scared".

"I wasn't. I used to go hunting at night in the woods, before summer faded. I never saw a ghost, but I wanted to see one".

Sansa Stark looked at her in disbelief. "How old were you?".

"Seven, perhaps, maybe less". Kerra studied her again, examining her features. "I saw your brother once. The bastard one, that is. He was with Mance, said he was a turncloak. In the end, he was not". He was a tall, good-looking boy. Ygritte had taken a liking on him from the first day, but Kerra had never been interested. He looked so young, and green. 

Her eyes darkened in pain. "I was never good with Jon. I should have treated him like a brother, but it is too late now". Kerra had not been at Castle Black at the time, but she too had heard of the pitiful end of the Lord Commander, stabbed by his own brothers.

"I knew his woman. She was a tough one. He must have been a good lad, if she liked him so much".

"The Brothers don't have women. Jon was only..." the girl hesitated. "He wanted Mance to trust him, that is all".

It seemed to Kerra that the girl was very bad at detecting affection. "Oh, I assure you he liked her well enough" she said, cheerfully. "And why should he not? She was kissed by fire, like me and you". And Sandor Clegane, but she didn't say that, deeming it not prudent.

Sansa blushed prettily at the thought of her own charms, and Kerra smiled. She had seen the little lady flirting shamelessly with a boy, the greenest of all. He was pretty, but looked like a girl. What charms he had that Clegane had not, she could not determine. Those southrons were quite strange.

"You blush. Do you think of a man?" Kerra asked maliciously, wondering whether the girl was still untouched by love. She didn't seem to have that sort of interest in Clegane. A pity, since he was so desperately in love.

Sansa's cheeks reddened again. Kerra had never blushed herself, but she felt that on the other's pale skin it was very becoming. "I know that you have your own costumes beyond the wall" the girl said, "but here, we do not take lovers".

"I know" Kerra said, "Clegane told me as much".

There was a change in the lady's countenance, and Kerra did not know what to make of it. Still, it seemed interesting enough, and worthy of attention.

"I have seen you and my sworn shield talk. Have you been acquainted for a long time?" Sansa asked.

"These two or three months, I think" Kerra shrugged. "I liked him from the very start, you know".

"He is a... valiant fighter" the girl said, with some effort. Kerra knew why she seemed at difficulty. It seemed that their friendship ws conflicted at the very best. Tension was almost palpable whenever the wilding saw the two of them together.

"And a very satisfying lover" Kerra agreed, gayly. "Though perhaps it is not your costum to speak of such things" she added a bit too late, in seeing her companion's countenance change again. The deep red colour Sansa Stark had assumed proved her right. "No" she murmured. "It is not".

"Forgive me" Kerra said, with newly learned politeness. "I did not mean to make you ill at ease". It was a lie, of course, but the other didn't seem to suspect it. 

"You need not worry" Sansa said, quickly. "It must be confusing for you. I know how hard it is, when you need to... adapt to a new environment".

"Well, not quite. I don't care to adapt" Kerra said bluntly.

Sansa looked at her almost in envy and said nothing. She bent her head and closed her eyes in prayer, and Kerra, after a while, did the same. For once, she decided to pray like the Southerners did. She wondered whether it would help.

Please, gods, give peace to the dead, and strength to the living. To Sandor Clegane as well, and to this girl. She needs it more than anything else.

For herself, she asked nothing. It seemed to her that it would be worthless to pray for her own wellfare, and only hoped that one day someone might pray for her.

 

When Sansa emerged from the Godswood again, there was someone with her. Sandor immediately recognised those flaming hair and willowy body he had touched so often, and felt nervous.

Not only they were walking side by side; the two girls seemed to get along well, chatting in a low murmur he could not catch.

  
_I might need to kill that woman later_. He was not surprised that Kerra had figured out who occupied such a prominent share in Sandor's thoughts, but he hadn't thought it possible that she should seek to speak to the lady of Winterfell. Sandor couldn't think of two women who differed more in character, temper, behaviour and principles - could it be that they were talking about him?

_Cut this madness, dog. Why would Sansa Stark speak of you with anyone?_

As they walked towards him, Sandor could scrutinize his lady at his own leisure for the first time since his return. He had found her changed; she had grown in height, her hair had grown as well, and she was thinner, but still every bit as beautiful as he remembered, and more.

It was useless to deny it to himself - he had missed her. He was not the Hound, however hard he tried to be. He had changed long ago, and it had been all for her, all because of her.

Sandor was avoiding Sansa Stark as much as his duties as her sworn shield would allow. The last time they had spoken, before his departure, they had quarrelled. Again. She had named Gregor, and it had been enough to make him bloody furious, but he wasn't angry at her anymore.

  
_How can I be?_  he asked himself, anguished. He could use some anger, it was a good shield for his heart to hide behind. He hated himself for his weakness, for being so vulnerable in front of her.

When the two girls were near enough, he gave the wildling a murderous stare that invited her to check herself. In response, Kerra smiled innocently at him, blinking. "Oh! Here you are, Clegane!" she said, merrily.

Sandor nodded at her, conscious that the little bird was watching them. He wanted to turn on his heels and run as fast as he could, away from the woman he fucked and the one he loved.

Instead, he grunted a flat greeting, and turned to Sansa. "shall I accompany you to your rooms, my lady?" he asked.

"Yes, if you please" she said, politely.

When they headed towards the castle, however, Kerra trotted behind them as well, making funny remarks about the place, the men passing by, or anything else that attracted her fancy.

Five minutes later, the two women were walking arm in arms, giggling and whispering, while Sandor followed them in grim silence, aware of the glares people gave them as they passed.

As he watched Kerra conversing easily with the girl that occupied all of his thoughts, Sandor for the first time felt a little pang of envy. How would it be, he thought, to be able to converse easily with others; to entertain instead of frighten, to charm instead of repelling. 

He tried to picture it. Tried to see himself walking slowly across the snowy garden, Sansa laying on him arm, looking at him straight in the face. He imagined bending towards her to tell her something, imagined her casting her head backwards and laugh, her eyes sparkling.

It struck him, for it would never happen. He halted, not knowing why he had stopped - because Sansa Stark looked and felt unreachable, or because she was so to him only.

Kerra halted as well, turning towards him. "You all right, Clegane?" she asked, and the little bird was looking at him too.

  
_No_ , he wanted to say, _I am not_. But the words never parted from him.

 

_The snow was cold under his paws. Snow, snow. He sniffed the air, looking up at the moon. Smell of decay, smell of fire, and above all, fear. They would not come yet – he could sense it. there was still time, but not as much as he could have wanted. He must hurry._

_He ran then, fast as the wind blowing through the pines, running like a white ray of moon. he was not hunting, but he was looking for the woman, and her scent was unmistakable. He was getting near._

_As he ran, however, something distracted him. What was it? something was touching him, but not on the fur. It was a gentle brush that smelled of home and summer, and the human inside the wolf felt a grip of longing._

_Still, there was nothing but a white tree, with a face carved on his, crying blood. Had someone called him? Not Ghost, but the bastard, the dead boy._

_Nothing spoke, nothing moved, and he was a wolf again, and finally, his red eyes found a red figure. She approached him, and she seemed to glow like dying embers, as she caressed him on the head, just a soft touch._

_“You are ready” she said, and he understood him, and then he was not a wolf, but Jon Snow, on the ground, gasping for air, and the moon shone bright above them, and he was alive again, and ready._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the delay, and I know this chapter isn't that great, but this is really important for the plot's sake. I promise a lot of Sandor and Sansa in next chapter. Hope I won't keep you waiting for too long.


	15. A dog's forgiveness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa and Sandor are friends again?

“Speak to her”.

“Like fuck I will”.

“She wants you to speak to her. You can read it in her face”.

“No”.

“And you _want_ to speak to her. Whenever she’s around you squirm like a little virgin who is just going to be fucked hard and good”.

“Careful on what you say, woman”.

“Or what? You going to bore me to death with your stubbornness? You are boring”.

“Feel free to screw someone else, then”.

“I will, in a week or so. As soon as I’m gone from here, leaving you to starve yourself for love”.

“I’ll be happy to be freed from your insolent tongue”.

“And I from your sighs. I’ll have to say farewell, for you’ll die of a consumption before I’m back”.

“I said careful”.

“Speak to her, I say, and be done with it”.

“No”.

“Don’t you think she’d be happy if you did?”.

“No”.

“You are a coward, Sandor Clegane”.

“I warn you –“.

“Don’t you dare threaten me, Clegane. We both know you won’t raise a finger against me”.

“So that’s the way of it, isn’t it? you think I wouldn’t hurt you. you’re wrong. I have killed women before, I could do it now as well, and not lose an hour’s sleep afterwards. I am a killer”.

“Bah! You’re a terrible liar. You have long lost your taste for blood, no matter what you think. You try to look frightening, but you’re not. You’re just a little coward, too afraid even to speak to a girl of fifteen”.

“I won’t speak to her”.

“Why not, Clegane?”.

“Why should I?”.

“Because she wants to make peace with you, you blockhead!”.

“And why in the name of the Seven would you care?”.

“Because you’re bad at being a coward, Clegane. You’re so bad I am ashamed to fuck you”.

“She is better off without the likes of me”.

“Undoubtedly”.

“Then –“.

“Women never choose what’s best for them. You, on the other hand, are better than most”.

“I won’t talk to her. End of the question”.

“Then I’ll do it”.

“I’ll rip that tongue of yours off before you can”.

“I thought you liked my tongue”.

“Just stay away from her”.

“I will. If you speak to her”.

“Fine. Stop bothering me now”.

“I promise I’ll be good”.

“How good?”.

“Let me show you”.

 

 

It was the first time that Sansa and Sandor Clegane were alone since he had returned. The library was completely quiet as Sansa scribbled the first draft of a letter she was writing to Stannis, to inform him if her first impression of the returning army.

Sandor Clegane was standing by the door, his slate eyes fixed on the floor, looking foul humored as always and willing to ignore her very existence.

Sansa's thoughts returned to what Kerra had told her the day before, with the same degree of shock. That someone, anyone, should want to be bedded by the fearsome Hound seemed so strange, so foreign a notion as to deserve some thought.

Kerra was a pretty young woman. She was exotic as well, with the kind of charm that came with independence of spirit and custom. She was a warrior. Sansa could see why the lord of Deepwood Motte was attracted to the wildling spearwife - they were kindred.

 _And it must be good for him to feel desired._  She thought of his face, of the burned flesh that had once scared her so much. Sansa knew his pain. She knew how he had suffered, how he still suffered for what his brother had done to him. Who could love a disfigured monster?

She wondered how he could look like without those scars. The right face of his face, with his high cheekbones, gaunt cheeks, grey eyes and black hair was at least striking, his height imposing. He was tall, broad-chested, well built. He was fearless, skilled in battle. He also was, she knew, a good man. _If only he wasn't so angry. If only his brother hadn't made him the Hound, if he was only Sandor Clegane..._

After his return, Sansa had been angry at him for being cruel to her, but in truth, she had not been nice to him. She didn't believe him to be the Hound, not in earnest, but she wished he could forgive her. She wished he could value her just as much as he now valued his wildling woman. She had always been important to him, but now they were strangers, and she was very, very sorry.

Sansa stole a glance at him, and for the first time since his return, she caught him looking at her. Sandor immediately averted his eyes, but it was motivation enough to her.

"My lord" she said.

Clegane looked up at her. "Yes, my lady?" he asked, flatly.

Courage failed her. Colouring, she shook her head, slowly. "Nothing. Nothing" she said, tiredly.

She felt his grey gaze on him, but she would have died before she admitted that she felt uneasy under it.

_What is he thinking?_

It surprised her when she perceived him approach her. She lifted her gaze, and he was towering on her.

He seemed rather awkward as Sansa waited for him to speak. He swifted his weight from one foot to the other, clearing his throat. "Girl" he began, but then, he seemed not to know how to go on.

Her heartbeat increased.

"Yes?" she asked, tremulously.

"Nothing" Clegane said, rubbing his neck, looking elsewhere. But he did not move. He seemed frustrated, and Sansa thought she should encourage him. It was the first time he spoke to her on his own will in a very long time.

"If you have anything to say - anything at all - I will hear you".

He made a strange gesture with his hand, then cleared his throat again. He was angry now, but she guessed it was self-aimed anger. Sansa hesitated, but then, she reached for him and briefly touched his hand. "Is something bothering you, my lord?".

He jerked away from her. "Bugger this. I am no good with words". Sandor Clegane turned his back on her, and seemed to be hiding some change of emotion.

"My lord...".

Sandor faced her again. "Don't call me that!" he barked. "Don't call me that" he said again, in a firmer voice. "You know I am no true lord, girl".

"Deepwood Motte is yours" Sansa said.

"Aye, for what I care of the place. So what? Paint a toad with stripes...".

"...it doesn't make it a tiger" she completed for him. "I know. You told me so once".

That silenced him for a while.

"How should I call you, then?" she asked him. "Should I start to call you Hound again?".

"Does it matter?" he asked.

"It does to me!" she cried, jumping on her feet. "You are my sworn shield. I entrusted my life to you".

"And I saved your pretty neck more than once, didn't I?" he said, in a growl.

"Yes, you did" she conceded, starting to feel her eyes a little wet. "But after we quarrelled you have been wicked and unforgiving, and you don't care if I am sorry, and you don't care for me, and...".

"Don't I?" he interrupted her. "DON'T I?" He slammed his fist against the table. "I saved you from littlefucker. I rode in the middle of a fucking storm to find your brother. I went South to kill for Stannis, so that he might trust me, for you! Seven Hells, girl, what do you want from me?".

"I - I -" she stammered. She was sad and mortified.

"Fuck" he hissed, giving his back to her, passing a calloused hand on his face.

"I am sorry" Sansa said, voice shaking. "You know I am sorry. I told you I was, but you won't forgive me!".

He said nothing, nor did he turn.

"You are my only true friend" Sansa whispered. "I need a friend more than anything else".

Sandor Clegane turned towards her, and notwistanding his dark frown, somehow she knew she had won. "Will you not forgive me?" the girl asked, just to be sure, extending her hand to him. He seemed to debate something inside him, but it didn't last long. Clegane took the small hand that had been offered him in his, slowly. "You are a fool to offer me friendship".

"Might be" she said, reluctantly. "But I don't care. I have missed you while you were away, Sandor". There, she had said it - she had called him with his name, and she waited for him to laugh at her. He didn't, nor did he leave her hand.

"You have a sweet, delicate heart" he grunted. "It will get you into trouble".

Sansa stepped closer to him. She went on her tiptoes and shily kissed his good cheek. "But you will protect me" she said.

"Aye. That I will, little bird" he rasped.

 

Kerra's departure had ben settled for the following day, and Sandor was there with his precious little lady to see her off. The two girls shook hands and exchanged a few, hasty words, but Sandor did not wish to say goodbye. Last night he had told her what had happened with the little bird and had fucked her farewell, but he had no words with her.

Still, when Kerra approached him, she took his hand too. Leaning towards him, she whispered only, "love her well, Clegane. Don't make me ashamed".

Then she was gone, Stannis' men were leaving, and though Sandor was relieved that his lover was out of the way and unable to give him problems, he felt that he was missing something. He had always been a solitary man, a grim man, a dog, a killer, but Kerra had not cared. Now he was alone with his thoughts again and no relief, no shield against the increasing power the Stark girl held on him.

They walked back to the castle, slowly, Sandor one step behind her. The girl was clad in a white-and-gold dress, made out of soft wool. Her long, red hair were tied in a simple braid that fell behind her.

He thought of the night before. He had sought to speak to her, but before he could, she had asked him to forgive him, in that melodious voice of hers. When she had started to sob, even his basest feelings had given way.

She had called him a friend, swearing she had missed him. "Sandor" she called then, using his name again. It sounded so natural coming from those lips, the same that had blessed his good cheek.

"Yes, my lady?" he asked, not sure if anyone could hear them. He was jealous of that pet name he had given her, that _little bird_ no one used but him. He had not called her that in a long time until the night before.

"The weather is excessively fine today, don't you agree?" Sansa Stark asked him.

"Same as any other day" he shrugged.

"Perhaps you would be so obliging as to escort me. I want to take a short turn of the park" the girl said, her eyes already wandering to the gate that separated the yard from the garden.

"Do you have your thick boots on? The snow is rather high, I think" he said to dissuade her.

"We will follow the path" Sansa said. "I cannot bear to be always locked inside. I feel a prisoner in my own house".

"Very well" Sandor surrendered. Without thinking, he fumbled with the clasp of his cloak and offered it to her. He always did, not wanting her to freeze to death. Like always, she accepted it gratefully, and Sandor prepared to freeze his balls off.

Together they set off to the park, and as Sandor had predicted, the snow went up to their calves everywhere but in the gravel avenue that circled it. The girl didn't seem to mind; she walked slowly, humming quietly, her breath coming out in little clouds, her cheeks red for the cold.

"You have been away for a long time. How were things in the South?".

"What? Feeling nostalgic, little bird?" he asked sarcastically.

"No" she said, without the slightest hesitation. "I hope I never have to leave my land again. I was thinking, however - we won a little too easily, didn't we?".

"Nothing's easier than a champaign for a little girl who stayed behind" Sandor mocked her, but without real gravity. He wanted to tease her, nothing more, and he succeeded. She frowned at him disdainfully. "You know what I meant".

"Aye, I know" he said.

"I am serious" she protested. "Do you think we will win this war?".

"I think the Lannisters will lose" he said, after a brief pause. He wasn't going to lie to her. She was a lady now, and she could not ignore the truth if she wanted to rule. "But I am not sure it will be by our hand. What we facesd was but a small part of the crown's forces".

"I know. There is this dragon prince. Is he to be feared, then?".

"What do you think, little bird? You seemed to have thought the matter through".

"I think..." She hesitated, but then she stopped, and looked at him, pensively. "He was raised among barbarians. He might be skilled in the arts of war, but shall he take the Iron Throne, he might not know how to keep it".

"Barbarians? No, little bird, they are no such things. I saw many of them in King's Landing. They might think differently than we do, but they are not fool, just like the wildlings aren't".

Sansa gave him a sharp look."I know you think highly of these wildlings" she said.

Should have seen this coming, Sandor thought. He wasn't going to show he had understood her, although he wondered how much she truly knew. Would she care if she did?

"Men are men" he said.

Sansa looked down for a moment. "So, what do you think? Will the prince win in the end?".

"If he does, we might not be doomed" he said, slowly, careful to keep his voice in check. "There are easier ways to win than war".

"I won't marry him" the girl said, stubbornly. She had caught his meaning all but too quickly. _She is growing wise. She is a woman_.

"Not even if it means saving your people?" Sandor suggested, against his very will. "Not even if it saves us all?".

She sighed. "I only hope... I only hope it doesn't come to this".

"Sooner or later, this will be asked of you. You must remember it". He did not wish to say those words. They pained him, but she had to see, she had to realise it. It would never be over, she would never be free. She would be passed from cage to cage, and neither of them could change that.

"I know. I know" she said, painfully. She paused. "Please, let us talk of something else now. I came here to be merry, and I will be".

He chuckled darkly. "And you expect me to amuse you?".

"You are never amusing if you can't help it" she said, giving him a disapproving look. "But that won't stop me from being cheerful. How is Rickon going? Did you find him improved as to his swordfighting?".

Sandor had sparred with the boy the day before, and it was plain he had done his best to impress him. "Aye, he has improved. He is taller as well, which sure as hells makes some difference".

"Yes, I'm sure height does the trick. Were you shorter, you wouldn't be half as scary".

Sandor had already a cutting remark on his tongue, but when he eyed her, he saw that she was wearing a malicious smile on her pretty mouth. He thought it wise not to reply, merely grunting scornfully.

They walked in peace for a while, Sandor meditating on her lightness, she resuming her humming. "I am sorry Kerra left" she said, all of a sudden. "She is funnier than any other women I have ever met".

Sandor said nothing. He was annoyed. Why should she bring the woman up now? What did she want to prove?

Sansa seemed disappointed. "She spoke a great deal of you, you know".

"Did she, now?" he said flatly.

"Yes" she said, plainly. "I think she really likes you".

"She doesn't" he snapped.

Sansa arched an eyebrow at that. "Why are you so cross now?".

"I am not" he said.

"I thought you were friends".

"Why are you taking such an interest in this?" he confronted her.

She blushed slightly. "I was curious" she muttered. Then, after considering it, she added, "It is the first time you have made a friend". Sandor didn't like the way she said friend, but he barely noticed. He liked even less how she spoke of that matter, as if she didn't care.

_Of course she doesn't, you oaf. Did you think the bird would be jealous of such a woman... Of you?_

"We fought together. End of the story" Sandor lied, and that made him feel even angrier. Why would he lie to her? What did he expect to gain from it? He had prided himself on his honesty, and yet...

"I apologise. Should I have known the subject bothered you, I wouldn't have brought it up" his lady said, not looking at him.

They said nothing else until they had completed their turn around the park. All Sansa's cheerfulness was gone. She still walked by his side, but she was lost in thought, her expression composed.

They returned to the castle, and Sandor escorted her to her rooms, all the while regretting that Kerra had been alluded to. He wanted to ask the bird how much she truly knew, but he didn't.

"Shall I fetch you for dinner?" Sandor asked the girl when they reached her tower.

"Thank you" she said, with a pale smile.

"Good" he said, uncomfortably, and he made his escape before she could tell him anything else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't like this chapter but I don't know how to fix it either. So I'll just post it.


	16. Fearing happiness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa and Sandor try really hard to be friends, and Jaime has a plan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not much of a chapter, expecially after two months of inactivity. Very important, however, for plot's sake. Don't give up on me, next's on its way.

A map was spread across the table, so large it covered most of the wooden surface. Westeros had been drawn in brilliant ink, and a different color had been destined for each of the Great Houses with their lands. Above the Neck, the lands were white, names written in black.

Sansa had been studying the map for more than an hour. Small figures made out of bone had been placed were Stannis’ troups were located. Others had been carved to look like lions; but they were fewer and fewer by day. There were other statues, as small as the others but made of wood, stood were the dragon princeling was fighting, down in the Stormlands.

She looked and looked, and could not see anything. They said that Tywin Lannister had been a genius in strategy, and Robb had been too, in a way. where she only saw small pawns like those made to play cyvasse, they could see victory or defeat.

_Perhaps Cersei was right after all. I must be truly stupid._

She could not think of one, single thing she could do or suggest to help her cause – the King’s cause. She was the Warden of the North until Rickon came of age, and yet all she could do was to smile, sing, be mistress of a castle that grew emptier day after day.

Someone knocked at the door. She had been using a summer parlor instead of the library, not wanting anyone to disturb her. There were not many to know where she was. She could guess.

“Yes?”.

“It’s me, little bird”.

Sansa was relieved. If he called her like that, it meant there was no one with him.

“Come in” she said, after indulging in a quick glance at the small mirror hanging from the wall.

Sandor Clegane made sure to close the door after him. He looked tired, she noticed, and not very happy. That was to say, of course, more unhappy than usual.

“I am glad that you are here” Sansa said, quietly.

“Are you?” he snorted sarcastically. His grey eyes wandered across the room, filling with any detail that might prove vital to them both.

He scanned her as well, as if the color of her gown or the necklace she wore could prove to be essential, as if it was his duty to remember everything about her, at any time. She was always uncomfortable under such a gaze, but it was not a pervert’s leer, or the murderous glare he reserved to his foes. He was unreadable, completely absorbed in his task, and grave.

Then his eyes averted from her figure, and landed on the big scroll on the table.

“The little bird is learning strategies, is she?” Sandor Clegane said, the corner of his mouth quirking and twitching, but not in rage. He seemed slightly amused. That was the closer he ever got too a smile.

“I have been wondering about a few things” she admitted, biting her lips.

“Is that what you wanted me for?” he asked her.

“I would ask no one else” Sansa said. “I do not wish them to see how… inexperienced I am”.

“You are right” he said. “And these things do not belong to women”.

Sansa eyed him in such distaste that he snorted. “How many men do the Lannisters have?”.

He got closer to the table, surveying it. “Could not tell their number. Most of them are here, however” and he put a finger near Storm’s End, pointing to the golden lions that had been set there. “What is left at the Neck is scarcely an army. We could beat them at any time”.

“The dragonprince”  Sansa said, standing now by him side. “Does he outnumber them? The Lannisters, I mean”.

“Aye, I knew what you meant”. He scratched his beard, deep in thought, his brow furrowing. “Stannis has spies, but they don’t share their secrets with me. My guess is, aye, he has more men. Not many more, perhaps, but better-skilled, and less weary”.

She nodded in understanding. “Where is Griffin’s Roost?” she asked, bending slightly closer to him to inspect the Stormlands more accurately. “I cannot see it on the map”.

“You cannot expect it to be on it. ‘tis not big enough, and it’s worth nothing”.

“You speak as if you’d been there”.

“I have” he said, flatly. “Once. Not that I remember much. Was too drunk most of the time”.

She arched an eyebrow at him, but chose not to comment. “So, where is it?”.

Tall as he was, he had to bend as well to touch the map, showing her the exact location. His chest brushed slightly against her shoulder, and lingered there for the briefest of times, as he said, “there”.

“You have seen a lot  of places, haven’t you?” Sansa asked, as her mind explored that new consciousness. She looked at him, bending her head backwards to engage his eyes.

“A lot of them, aye”. Sandor Clegane didn’t seem enthusiastic about it.

“Have you ever been to Dorne?” Sansa asked.

He broke in a mirthless chuckle at that. “A Clegane setting as much as a foot in those lands would be doomed, little bird. Have to thank my brother for that”.

Sansa shivered at the memory of princess Elia. It was her son, it was said, that came now to avenge her death.  _If the princeling wins, he’ll have Sandor’s head on a spike,_ she realized.  _I could never marry him, not after that._

“What about the Reach? Have you ever seen it?” she said, to change the subject.

“Aye. Been there more than once. ‘twas not far from the Keep”.

“Clegane’s Keep?” Sansa asked.

“That would be the place” he confirmed, dryly.

“Show me. where is it?”.

He had to move to show her. He moved behind her, and extended an arm, brushing her side, pointing at another spot somewhere under Castelry Rock. “Here” he rasped, so close to her ear that Sansa felt a small, strange, secret shiver running down her spine. He was very close, she realized. The knowledge confused her a little.

She focused on what he was showing her. “You grew up by the sea” Sansa stated.

“Aye, not so far from it. so what?”. He stepped away from her, resuming his previous place on her side.

“It must have been good, to grow up there” she said, without thinking. When she realized, she blushed in shame and confusion. “I am sorry. I meant no offense by that” she said, apologetically, and she raised her stare to him, to ascertain he had not taken it ill.

Sandor Clegane watched her. It seemed like he wanted to understand her, as if she was a riddle to him. “The place was not bad in itself” he said at last. “There’s nothing to be sorry for”.

Sansa nodded. “How… how was it?” she asked. It was foolish to thus play with fire, she thought, asking him questions he didn’t want to answer. Still, the urge was strong. There were not many occasions to learn something more about him. “The place  you grew up in, I mean”.

His grey eyes went blank. “Why would you care?” he asked, wearily, on his guard.

“Why wouldn’t I?” she challenged him.

His jaw relaxed a little, his fists unclenched a bit. He looked at the map, as if he could see things on it she couldn’t. “Wasn’t a real castle. A tower, more like. Old, much older than my family” he said. His voice was hoarse and cold, distant. “Scarcely a day’s ride from Castelry Rock. No village nearby, only woods. And the sea, if one cared to walk half an hour to reach it”.

Sansa kept silent for a while. “When this is all over” she began then, “if we are alive, and free – will you go back there? Back home?”.

In his eyes she could see a flickering flame of anger. “That was never my home, little bird” he rasped in the end. “And I have sworn to protect you”.

“I thank the Gods you did” she said. “I wouldn’t be here if not for you, Sandor”.

 

 

Devan watched the snow fall from the sky. It was an unfamiliar view to him, to see everything fade into white and grey. The silence that fell after every storm was even less familiar – it seemed like snow swallowed every sound, as if silence itself was nothing more than ice in another form.

The window had no bars, but it had been nailed in place to prevent any possibility of an escape on his part. Two guards were stationed under it, and two more stood out of his door. Still, they all knew he would not try to run – not alone, not when the North had proved the Starks right – winter had come.

He could have tried, and died in the attempt, but to what purpose? He was to be returned to his family soon enough, with the compliments of the new Lady Stark, as soon as the gold had reached Winterfell, and Stannis. Such a ransom could undoubtedly help the northerners pay some filthy mercenaries from Essos, but Ser Devan doubted his family would care.

_We are losing the war,_ he thought.  _We started it, and for what? For a boy that had no right on the Throne, and even less ability in keeping it._ Joffrey had been cruel, like his mother, like his father as well.  _How could Jaime do it? How could he fuck his own sister, the blood of his blood?_

“You don’t understand, uncle” Jaime told him.

Devan turned to him. “You betrayed us. Your family” he said, and for a moment his expression showed that he was indeed lord Tywin’s brother.

“Ou family?” Jaime snorted. “Our family is a lie. It has always been a lie. Look at us, nuncle. My honor is worth less than a mummer’s shit. My sister could fuck every piece of scum in Flea Bottom if that would secure her Throne. Tyrion has killed father with a crossbow. we have no friends, nuncle, only foes. Can you not see why?”.

“Because we have power” Ser Devan said.

“If you have power, why are you losing the war?”.

Devan fell silent for a while. He hadn't failed to notice the _you_ he had used. “Why her? Why the Stark girl?”.

Jaime shrugged. “She would be a better queen than most. Better than my sweet sister, no doubt”.

“Is that your plan? Make her Queen, maybe marry her yourself?”. Ser Devan looked at his nephew in distaste.

“No”. Jaime shook his head. “You may not approve it, and I don’t  care. But I loved Cersei more than anything. I could love no other woman like I loved - like I love her”.

“And yet you abandoned her. You abandoned _us_ ”.

“I have my own kind of pride” Jaime said. “I will do what I think right, and nothing will stop me. I have sworn a vow, to protect lady Stark. I won’t fail her as I failed… everyone else”.

Ser Devan thought of Sansa Stark then. Being free to wander across the castle, he had often met her, escorted by Sandor Clegane – the very man who had brought Devan here.

“What is it with the girl? Why is it that everyone revolves around her like a moth around a candle?”.

“She is kind. You must have noticed as well”.

“Aye, that much is plain” Ser Devan conceded. “Even Clegane seems to be drawn to her”. He remembered the fellow. A vicious killer, always drunk, and filled with hate and rage. Yet he followed the girl around like her lapdog. "How did he come here?".

Jaime shrugged.

"He was hiding on the Quiet Isle when I reached it. I was on my way to the Vale then. Thoros had told me I would find the girl there".

"Thoros? Thoros of Myr?".

"Of the Brotherhood Without Banners, more like" his nephew said, gloomily, as his eyes followed shadows of unpleasant memories. "I met him under - not very agreeable circumstances".

_What were you doing with the Brotherhood, Jaime?_ Devan asked himself. Some whispered he had followed a woman - a Brienne of Tarth, according to them. He wanted to know if that was the truth, but he sensed Jaime would not speak of it.

"Once I reached the Isle, I spoke with Elder Brother. I asked him for a swift horse and some provisions. I didn't tell him what my business with Littlefinger was. Seems like I didn't need to.  _There's someone I'd like you to meet, before you leave,_ he told me. And there he was, Sandor Clegane, with his sword already on his side".

Jaime stopped to pour himself a cup of wine, and smiled. "A funny sight, to see him dressed as a monk. I knew him better than most when we were in King's Landing. I think he liked me because I wasn't afraid of him".

He drank from the cup with his golden hand, and breathed heavily, contented. "Elder Brother asked me if I was looking for Sansa Stark. I told him I was. All I know is that the way after that, I made for the Bloody Gates with Clegane following me like a big, ugly shadow. Seems the two of them had met, back in the Red Keep".

Ser Devan scrutinized his nephew, suspiciously. He had asked Jaime questions, but from the way the Kingslayer had answered, Devan inferred there was something else.

"What are you trying to tell me?. He poured himself a cup of wine as well.

"I am telling you" Jaime said, pleasantly, "that you are going to die. Sansa is a Stark of Winterfell. Her blood is pure, and she is like her father - has the same honor. People will love her like they will never love Cersei, or Stannis, even. She is a symbol, and a symbol can be a very powerful weapon in the right hands".

"Do you plan to kill me, then? Would you harm the blood of your blood?".

"Your blood will run without my help soon enough. Perhaps, however, that moment might be deferred. Go home, nuncle. Sit at your table, drink with your men, fuck a pretty girl. Then, when you have realized you'd like to do those things for a while longer, remember King Stannis, and Sansa Stark. And think that you might pay your debt with an allegiance, instead than with your head".

 

 

“Do you think he will make it safe?” Sansa asked her sworn shield. She was sitting by the window of her room in the tower, her blue eyes fixed on the small party of soldiers already disappearing among the snow.

“How would I know?” Sandor said bluntly. “Ironborns have been less troublesome of late, since that Victarion sailed with most of their fleet. If they’re lucky, they might reach Castelry Rock in less than a week”.

“But do you think it likely?”. The girl turned to him, seeking hope. He could give her none, however, and they both knew that.

“There’s no way to tell, when it comes to sea” Sandor told her with a shrug. “That’s what men like about it. One can never know”.

The girl closed her eyes and sighed, wearily. She was growing thinner and sadder by the day, he had noticed, and yet she gave no sign of breaking. It was quite a thing to see, the strength she hid in her little frame. Sandor’s thoughts went back to the day when she had hit him right on the face, challenging him like no one else had done before.

_Fierce little bird._

“I envy him” she whispered after a while.

“Who?” Sandor asked.

“Ser Devan”. The girl seemed abashed by that confession, and avoided his slate-grey eyes. “He is going home, to his family. South. No winter to trouble him”.

“Yet” he said, rather roughly. “Do not envy him, little bird. He is doomed. The Lannisters will lose”.

“And we won’t?” Sansa Stark asked.

He clenched his fists. “Not until I live” he rasped, deadly calm.

The girl watched him for a while, pensively. She hardly seemed to notice the ugly scars on his left side. Time seem to expand and grow slower and slower, as her silent enquiry went on. in the end, she seemed satisfied. 

"You have changed" she said at last.

Sandor knew he had, but he didn't want her to see it so clearly. "No, I'm not. A dog is always truthful to itself".

"I am sure you are truthful. And yet, sometimes, it seems like you are - you have turned into something more -" she bit her lip and turned to the window again, a faint red sprawled on her cheeks.

"Whatever you think you've seen, you are wrong" he snapped. 

"Oh, spare me the mocking" Sansa said, rather ungraciously. "I am no child, you know. I see things just as much as you do".

"And what have you seen in me, girl?" he said, with a cruel grin that did not mirror the commotion storming inside his chest.  _Yes,_ he wanted to tell her,  _I am changed. You changed me._  To say it, however, would mean to accept, once for all, that it was true. It would mean to let go of that miserable life that had been his for thirty years. Awful as it had been, it had been  _his,_ and his only. 

He was afraid of abandoning it.

"You are kinder" she said, simply, sweetly even. "Well, you always were - kind. Only, you don't scowl so much, and you  _look_ kind, sometimes".

He dismissed the matter with a disgusted grunt, showing his disapproval to her considerations.

"I am happy that you are not so filled with hate anymore. Perhaps you are growing happier as well" the little bird continued.

_No, little bird, I am just as miserable as I used to be. Only, it is you that hurt me, and I cannot hate you._

How easier would things be if he could have her...

"It is late" Sandor Clegane rasped. "Go to bed, little bird".

He left her.


	17. Threatening love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some are coming to destroy, some are coming to love. And some are leaving.

Farad wiped his sweat with his right sleeve, before he returned his attention to the man who stood in front of him.  
"How many?" he asked feebly.  
The man shrugged. His name was Gerd, and Farad had known him for years. A good soldier, calm and efficient in battle, and trustworthy. "Sixty, most like" he said. "'twere small ships. But" he added, "there might be more o' them. Jim said so, and ye know he's seen lots of them ironborn in 'is times".  
Farad's heart sunk at those words. Yes, it was likely. The iron fleet was gone, following Victarion Greyjoy in his travel east. Still, Euron had his own fleet with him, and Deepwood Motte had been taken before, not long ago. "I will send word to Lord Clegane of it. King Stannis is at Castle Black - perhaps he can spare a few men" he said.  
"Me hopes he will" Gerd. "We cannot stand much o' a chance 'gainst them if he doesn't".  
Farad took a deep, shaky breath. "No, not much of a chance" he agreed. "You may go. Make the men ready. I'll write to Lord Clegane this moment".

***

Sandor never bothered wearing an armour when he trained Winterfell's guards - they were no match for his skills and strength.  
Sparring with the men was an old habit he had never lost, not even after his Lordship. Technically it was Jaime Lannister's duty as captain of the guards, but of late the blond warrior spent more and more time with Rickon, keeping a close watch on him. Sandor was more likely to teach them something anyways, since he still retained both his hands.  
That day, notwithstanding the cold, he had stripped down to his shirt and breeches, leaving his tunic hanging from a rusty nail.  
The first man seemed to think very highly of his fighting skills, for he charged him alone, sword raised high above his head. A mistake - it was all but too clear where the blow would land. "Is this what you call a blow?" Sandor roared in disgust, avoiding the blade with no difficulty whatsoever. "Even one with his head filled with shit like you should see that this is too - bloody - predictable!".  
One, single wave of his own greatsword, and the man was eating mud and snow.  
"What are you waiting for, you filthy pieces of scum?" he barked at the others waiting in line. "Do you plan to kill foes with shyness? did the Gods forget to gift you with a cock?"  
Two more men exchanged glances and paced forward together. One was tall and stout, the other almost too fat for his armour.  
The tall one was the first to attack, swinging his sword slowly. Sandor took the blow easily, thought surprised to feel the strenght of it. He was almost impressed when he spotter his fat companion coming from his right, evidently with the intention of taking him by surprise.   
He spinned around, however, and was ready to block the blade aiming at his neck. With a swift movement Fatty didn't even seem to see, he slid past his guard and touched him twice - one on his belly, the other on his leg. "Dead and dead again, unless that fat is thicker enough to stop a sword!".  
The tall man tried his luck then. He handed his sword well, but not well enough. "If you don't know how to use that legs of yours, you'll be knocked down before you draw that fucking sword! Come on, you two" Sandor added, addressing the two remaing men standing aside, "want me to send for a cup of tea so you can chat like two little pussies?".  
And so, surrounded by for men, he was occupied for a time, though not enough to prevent him from yelling something at them now and then.  
"Come on, you small sack of shit! Higher, higher!".  
"What the fuck was that? What were you aiming at? You wouldn't find a cunt between a whore's legs"  
"Get up, you little bugger, or next time I'll stick my sword right into your arse!".  
It was good to fight. In fighting, he only needed to trust his instincts. He only needed to rely on his strength, on his quickness, on his weapon.  
He did not get hit, not even once. Until, that is, his eyes spotted a wavy mass of auburn hair. He hesitated then, only for a split moment, but it was enough for him not to notice the fat lad aiming right at his head. He moved sideways at the last second, but the blunted sword reached his shoulder anyways.  
Grunting, he turned around and quickly disharmed the other.   
"We are done for today" Sandor growled, and the four unfortunate men were more than happy to get as far away from him as possible. Sandor sighed - his shoulder hurt like hell, being possibly dislocated. He would take care of it, soon.  
A soft clapping brought him back to the real world. He turned to see Sansa Stark standing in a corner, smiling. Suddenly, he was more conscious than necessary of his appearance - his messy,  wet hair glued to his disfigured features, his sweaty shirt clinging to his chest, his breath uneven. Though Sandor was unwilling to admit it, even to himself, he had of late made an habit out of frequent baths and finer clothes. The dog trying to be pretty for the pretty bird,  he thought mockingly.   
Then, another thought came. How long has she been there? How much has she heard? His tavern language was not quite suitable for a lady's ears. He never guarded himself in the yard; his lady never came to watch some simple men training in the cold.  
He approached her, uncomfortable. As always,she looked like Beauty herself, in the same white dress of the day before. She was wearing her hair down, and the Gods only  knew how much Sandor liked her like that, with soft ringled forming a frame around her exquisite face.  
"It has been a long time since I last saw you fighting" Sansa said, a smile still on her lips as she looked up on him. "You are as good as ever".  
"What are you doing here, little bird?" he asked in a low voice, pretending not to be proud at her praise. "Shouldn't you be at your needlework, or gossiping with the ladies?".  
"As lady of the castle, I have duties as well, you know" she said, almost offended.  
"Aye, girl, I know. I was merely teasing you" he told her, and she blushed prettily at that, making him want the more to tease her.  
"Well, I..." she began.  
"I compliment you, my lord" a new voice said. Myranda Royce approached them. She walked well, her hips moving sideways at every step. Sandor had never had much to say to her, but he too had noticed the way most men looked at her. Indeed, if he hadn't had the bird to compare her with, he would have found her quite intriguing. She was plump, pretty and merry, always smiling, always conscious of her attractiveness.  
He bowed at her.  
"Sansa and I happened to pass by, but I insisted upon my friend to stay and watch. I had never had the chance to see you spar before, and you have proven worthy of your fame". The Royce woman smiled mundanely, but Sandor did not know how to reply. "Those men are but boys" he said at last. "Any seasoned soldier would have sufficed".  
"Nay, you cannot fool me" lady Randa said pleasantly. "I have seen seasoned warriors in the Vale, but none was half as good".  
"The Vale has no need of skilled warriors, my lady. The land itself is enough to protect its inhabitants" Sandor said, with a shrug.   
"Upon my word, you seem determined not to be praised. Such modesty is perhaps even rarer than talent" the lady laughed. "And those virtues but seldom go together".  
Sandor said nothing. Why is this woman talking to me? What is it that she wants?  
"Lord Clegane is not accostumed to be praised, Randa" Sansa interjected. "But I know his worth. He has protected me valliantly in countless occasions". And the girl turned to smile at him.  
Sandor didn't speak.   
"Well, perhaps he will not deny us his valiant protection now. What to you say to a walk, dearest?" Myranda Royce asked Sansa.  
"I am sure he would," Sansa said, amused, "but perhaps he might wish for a bath now, and for some rest as well. He has been busy all day".  
"You see, my lord" the Royce woman said, now speaking directly to Sandor, "my little friends outshines me with her selflessness, and leaves me no chance but to be ashamed of myself. But perhaps you will join us tomorrow - we are determined to set out for a ride".  
"I am leaving tomorrow at dawn" Sandor said.  
"He is going to Deepwood Motte" Sansa Stark added. "He has been so good as to delay his business there until now, but I won't detain him any longer". She spoke lightly, but Sandor knew. There were pressing reasons for his return to Deepwood Motte.  
 _Bugger_ _those_ _Iron_ _Islanders_ _._ _I_ _don't_ _want_ _to_ _leave_ _her_ _._  
"Deepwood Motte!" Randa exclaimed, her eyes shining. "I would love to see it!".   
"It is a lovely place" the little bird told her, and Sandor froze at those words. He remembered the time they had gone there together.  _I thought she hated that rathole. Is she speaking in earnest?_  It looked like it.   
"You are a lucky man, Sandor Clegane" Randa said.   
"So it would seem" Sandor said. Then he turned to Sansa. "Are my services required, my lady?".  
"You may go" his lady replied.   
And he did, as quick as he could.

***

Richard Horpe hated the cold almost as much as he hated the North.   
His horse seemed to feel the same way. It made its way through the snow, huffing nervously.   
 _And_ _all_ _this_ _will_ _be_ _mine_ _._  
Justin Massey might well be contented with his ironborn slut. Stannis had promised her to him, but who cared for salt and sea and hardships? Horpe had had enough of them for a lifetime. A lifetime of struggles on the battlefield, and yet they had denied him his place in the Kingsguard, and all for that Lannister cunt.  
Well, he had a better plan in mind now.   
A cold wind blew, and Hope adjusted his cloak around him. Winter couldn't last forever. He cared not for the Red God, or His prophecies about chosen champions and white walkers. He was a practical man. And he would have his reward, if he knew how to play the game right.  
On he went, among the snow, to his bride.

***

Sansa knocked.  
A short silence ensued. "Who is it?" a muffled voice barked.  
"It's me" Sansa said, softly.  
Another silence, longer than the first. She waited patiently, wondering why he seemed so reluctant to let her in. She could hear nothing - no moving, no speaking.  
Then the door opened. Sandor Clegane kept it well oiled, it seemed, for it slid open without the slightest noise.  
Sansa barely noticed it, however. She flushed crimson as she inspected the man before her, bare-chested and plainly interrupted as he washed himself. His hair was damp, drops of water falling down on his shoulders and chest. A small basin could be seen behind him, a wet cloth hanging from it.  
The girl averted her eyes. "I am sorry. I didn't know you would still be cleaning yourself" she said, with an effort to keep her voice flat and polite. "I will - we can speak later".  
Sandor snorted in disgust. "Are you so easy to scare, little bird? Not the first time you see a man, is it?" he remarked, not without a hint of cruelty.  
Gathering all her inner strength, she lifted her eyes to meet his. "I was being polite" she said. She resented him for his crude remark.  
"Of course you were" he rasped. Sansa was still confused by his appearance, and she focused on her annoyance. Ignoring him, she strode past him, inside the room. She felt the soft thud of the door closing.  
"I would rather appreciate it" Sansa said, with great dignity, as she sat down on the only chair available in the scarcely-furnished room, "if you'd try to make yourself presentable now".  
"Thought you said the sight of me didn't bother you" he remarked.  
"I never said that much" she frowned at him, and immediately thought it a very bad idea. Droplets of water were running down his chest. Not a sight to be imposed on a lady. "I said I was being polite".  
"Clever, aren't you?" he growled. He turned his back on her, walking slowly to fetch a towel from the bed, and starting to rub himself with it. "Why did you come here?".  
"I wanted to talk with you" Sansa said. She produced a letter from her pocket, happy to have something to look at, that wasn't him. It embarassed her, to be reminded of the fact that he was... well, a man. Of course, she knew he was one, and with strong instincts, too. She had never been bothered by it - not often, at least. It was a part of him, however, she did not want to know. It confused her to think of him that way. She wanted to see him as Sandor, her friend and protector.  
"What did the little bird want to talk about?" he asked, as he began to scrub his hair.   
"I got a letter this morning" she told him.  
Sandor turned to her. "Did you, now?" he said, calmly.  
"I discussed it with Maester Yrvin and Lannister. It seems that Richard Horpe is finally coming" she said.  
Sansa had never met him. She knew he was one of Stannis' most devoted men, but that was all. When the king's army had marched South, it had been said that Horpe would command it, but then plans had been changed.   
 _And yet he chooses to come now, when no moving army could justify his presence here. S_ he had always suspected that his presence in Winterfell could have a hidden purpose, something entirely different from politics or military strategy.  
Sandor's grey gaze seemed to darken considerably at her words.   
"And you did not think of sharing the knowledge with me as well" he stated, his voice cold.  
 _Is he angry with me because of it?_  
"You were busy" Sansa said as an apology, but he didn't seem to soften. She felt a small pang of guilt. She had not meant to offend him, or to make him believe she didn't trust him.  
"I see" he rasped, contemptuously.   
Sansa could sense his pride had been wounded, and resolved not to fight with him over such a thing. She stood up and moved to his side, ignoring his lack of clothing and looking at him.  
"You know I trust you more than I could ever trust Jaime Lannister. I rely on your judgement as on Maester Yrvin's". The  girl spoke softly, touching his arm slightly. "That is why I'm here - I needed to speak with you".  
He grunted as though he didn't care, but she knew he did.  
Sandor went to the drawer and pulled a clean shirt out of it. Having him fully clothed was a relief to Sansa, and when he turned to face her again, she smiled at him brightly, to ensure that he was indeed not angry with her.  
It appeared that he was not.  
"So, when will the bugger come here?" he asked, rather gruffly.  
"He has left the Wall already, if Davos Seaworth is to be trusted".  
"Two or three weeks, then". He made a disgusted face. ."I won't be here when he comes".   
"I think it likely" Sansa said. She knew he didn't like the thought of leaving her alone to face Richard Horpe.  
Sandor surveyed her silently, as if he was wondering something. "What is it, Sandor?" she asked him.  
He did not answer. Instead, he waited for a while before he spoke again. "You've never met him".  
"No, I have not".  
"What do you know about him?".  
That seemed a strange question, or at least so seemed the look that accompanied it.   
Sansa frowned at him. "Not much" she said. "I know he is considered a skilled swordsman".  
"Aye, he has that fame. Thought so himself, but Robert did not, apparently. He refused his a place in the Kingsguard" and he chuckled, wickedly. "Wonder how he'll feel, knowing I had that  _hono_ _ur_ myself, without even a buggering knighthood".  
The thought seemed to amuse him no end.  
"But is he really good?".  
"Better than some". He shrugged. "No better than me".  
"But why did you ask me if I knew about him?".  
His lips quirked oddly. "No reason" he snapped.  
Sansa wasn't convinced, but his expression warned her against any further question. So Sansa decided to change the subject of her curiosity.  
"May I ask you a question?".  
"You can do what you bloody want" he said curtly.  
"What do you think of Myranda?" Sansa asked.  
From his countenance it was plain he would never have expected such a question. "Same as any other pretty lady at court" he rasped in response. "Knows her courtesies. Quite shrewd, I'd say" he bent his head on a side, as to dismiss the matter.  
"Randa seems to find you interesting. Might be you could be friends" she suggested, carefully.  
He made a sound. "Why would she care?" he asked. He seemed to consider the topic quite ridiculous.  
Sansa didn't know why she wanted to insist, but she did. "Well, you don't have many friends, and -" she struggled to keep her voice steady and casual, "I think Kerra had a good influence on you".  
If, as the saying went, looks could kill, the one Sandor Clegane gave her would have stricken her down like an arrow from Joffrey's crossbow. She pretended not to notice, however, and waited for his answer.  
"I don't care for stupid girls" he grunted. "Got one to take care of already. 'this more than enough".  
Sansa though he seemed a little edgy, but she thought it wise to let it go.  _I_ _was_ _just_ _being_ _curious_ _._ _In_ _the_ _end_ _,_ _it_ _is_ _none_ _of_ _my_ _business_ _._ _He_ _might_ _befriend_ _whomever_ _he_ _pleases_ _,_ _I_ _don't_ _care_ _._  
"I hope you return safely to us" she whispered in the end, after a while.  
"These ironborns are without a lead. They are but a few men" Sandor told her. "We will defeat them".  
"How long will it take, though?".  
Sandor's gaze softened a little. "I will return soon enough, girl".  
"You cannot say it for sure" Sansa said, tremulously. "You might not return at all".  
"I have survived 'till now. I will do it again". The way he looked at her, it seemed there was something else he wasn't telling her, something he was keeping from her.   
"Can you promise me that?" she said, sceptically.   
"I can" he said, looking sure. "It takes more than a few squids to bring me down, little bird".  
Sansa didn't believe him.  _Every_ _man_ _thinks_ _himself_ _immortal_ _,_ _until_ _he_ _dies_ , she thought. And she didn't want him to die, not now, not when they were getting along so well.  
"Then I will wait for you" she told him.  
Sandor examined her intently. "If Horpe does anything wrong... If he slights you in any way... I will kill him" he rasped. "And if Stannis wants my head for it, I don't fucking care".  
Sansa smiled to him.

***

“Must you really leave so soon?” Rickon asked, kicking aside a small bundle of staw lying next to his left boot, scattering it on the dirty ground.   
“Aye, that I must” Sandor Clegane said, without raising his head from Stranger’s saddle. He was cleaning it, making the old leather shine; treating it with the right oinment was the only way to keep it good, he had explained to Rickon once.   
They were the only people in the stables, all the stableboys having fled away as soon as they had spotted the huge, scarred lord approaching. They had long learned that he did not care for their help, and rather considered them to be a nuisance; they had not the slightest intention of enduring his irritated barks when they had no reason to. Besides, they had probably joined most of the servants in the kitchen, in search of their evening meals.   
It was good, for Rickon wasn’t supposed to be there, and he was sure that Maester Yrvin had already set Podrick in his quest for the young lord of Winterfell – which meant that said lord had not much time before someone caught him and forced him in his best clothes before dinner.   
“But it is not fair” Rickon complained. “We have scarcely had the occasion to fight since your return. You were too busy with Sansa, and with Podrick”.   
“You have your master at arms, though we might as well do without him, with all the care you put in avoiding him” Clegane retorted. “Besides, it was you that gave me the bloody lordship. Never asked for it”.   
“Maester Farad has taken care of Deepwood Motte. You could just send a raven to him, and stay here with me and Sansa” Rickon was trying to sound reasonable. “Don’t you want to protect her?”. He knew that Sandor Clegane cared for his sister. Why shouldn’t he? Sansa was pretty and kind, and everybody loved her. Sandor had saved her, like a knight in one of Old Nan’s stories. Rickon cherished the secret hope that one day Clegane might fall in love with her and marry her.   
Sandor looked at him coldly. “She doesn’t need me, not really. She’ll have Lannister with her”.   
“But you are better” Rickon insisted. “She always says that you are better. She has missed you very much these three months”.   
“Has she, now?” Sandor growled, settling on brushing Stranger’s mine with vigorous strokes.   
“Well, of course. We all did” the boy huffed. “I have been bored. There’s no one interesting in this place – they’re all away, in war. Even Podrick and Gendry were too busy with Lannister”.   
“And what were you doing?” Sandor asked.   
“Out. Exploring with Shaggy, most of the times” the lad shrugged. “Sometimes I had lessons, or sword practice, but aside from that, there was not much to be done”.   
“Do you think I’ll spend my time dry-nursing you just because I’m back, brat? “ Clegane rasped.   
“I don’t need a dry nurse” Rickon said, rather piqued. “Still, I would like to spar with you, like we used to. And we should go out riding, and take Sansa as well. She’s always in her room, or with her maids. She never goes outside if she can avoid it”.   
“She’s  a little skinny thing. She should not risk going out, not in this weather”.   
Rickon thought of his sister, alone but for Randa and her ward, Tyana. Day after day, doing nothing but a little chat or sewing. He, at least, had no duties to attend to, and could slip away unnoticed. “I think she is very unhappy” he could not help but saying, in a low voice.   
“Your sister is weary” Clegane said. “She has many things to worry about”.   
“She used to smile a lot” Rickon pointed out. The boy wanted desperately to believe that Sansa was nothing else but a little tired. Something told him there was more. _Sandor never tells lies. If he says she is tired, that means it is true_.   
“Aye, she did”.   
“I would like to see her smile again”.   
“You could start by going back to your rooms, lad. Get ready. Don’t make her ashamed. If you come back stinking of horse shit, she won’t be pleased”.   
“If you promise me not to go” Rickon pouted.   
“I won’t promise you anything, boy. Now off you go” Clegane said.   
Rickon knew that tone, so final, so calm and cold. He could not understand his friend, sometimes, and he was a little disappointed. He had thought he would care a little more for his sister. “Sandor?” he tried, once he had reached the threshold.   
“What now?” the man growled, frowning at him in warning.   
“Once you come back, you won’t be leaving us again so soon, will you?”   
“No reason to” the lord shrugged. "My place is here, lad".  
"With my sister?" Rickon asked, feeling very bold, and smiling at him.  
The man stopped and glared at him. "Aye" he rasped. "I will take care of her. Of you as well. Now bugger off, brat. I need to finish here".  
Rickon's smile widened. He ran away, satisfied. Maybe one day Sandor Clegane  _would_ fall in love with his sister.

***

_I will tell her,_ he thought _. Once I am back, I will tell her._ Winterfell was becoming smaller and smaller behind him, but the memory of the girl he left behind didn't. _She will know how much I bloody love her. She has the right to know. I am her dog, after all. I am hers._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was quick. The chapter was done, it only needed some minor changes. Sincerely hope you like this, I don't know what to think about it. Being so busy means you lack some insight on what the heck you are actually doing.  
> Anyways, I need to thank all those people who support this story. I am really glad you like. Hoping not to disappoint you!


	18. Unspoken love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa meets Richard Horpe.

Sansa Stark stood in the yard, her heart pounding.  _How_ _will_ _he_ _be_ _like_ _?_ , she wondered, nervously scanning the small party that was approaching on horse. The gates had been opened to welcome the guests, and she could see them coming.  _What's_ _his_ _business_ _here_ _?_ _What_ _is_ _Stannis'_ _plan_ _?_  
She had thought about it all over and over again, of course, in the past four weeks. She had not found an answer, and for the upteenth time she thought of Sandor Clegane.  
 _I_ _wish_ _he_ _was_ _here_ _._  
Words had come of him too. A week before he had written to her for the first time, telling her that his presence in Deepwood Motte was no longer necessary. Most of the Ironborn had been defeated or killed, some even taken for ransom by the men Stannis had sent to the small castle.   
 _There_ _are_ _not_ _many_ _left_ _,_ _and_ _my_ _men_ _can_ _take_ _care_ _of_ _them,_ he wrote, and Sansa had smiled in reading him address them as  _his_ men. T _he Boles_ _and_ _the Forresters_ _will_ _stay_ _in_ _my_ _place_ _._ _I_ _will_ _set_ _off_ _for_ _Winterfell_ _tomorrow_ _,_ _if_ _the_ _bloody_ _snow_ _allows_ _it_ _._  Sansa had smiled again - he cursed even down on paper.  
And then, he had added,  _I_ _will come_   _back_ _before_ _that_ _Horpe_ _cunt_ _arrives_ _._  
Sansa had been relieved and happy that he would be concerned for her well-being, but days had passed and no Sandor had appeared, and no raven either to tell her news of him. The snow must have delayed him, she knew, but she was sorry that he wasn't there with her. Strange as it was, it wasn't the same thing without his presence behind her, watching her, giving her a gruff advice or a sharp, coarse jape.  
 _And_ _now_ _Horpe_ _is_ _here_ _,_ _and_ _there's_ _no_ _one_ _I_ _can_ _rely_ _on_ _,_ she thought.  
Before she knew, they were there. Before all rode a tall man on a black stallion, and for the briefest of moments, she thought it was Sandor who had returned. But no, the man was not quite so tall, the horse not quite as ill-tempered, and the man was a knight, who bore the sigil of House Horpe.  
She went to greet him. The man dismounted from his horse, and Podrick ran to take the rains from his hand.  
"See" Sansa said, with a brave smile, "we were expecting you. I trust the journey wasn't too hard".  
The knight stood tall in front of her, watching her, before he removed his helm - and Sansa almost let a gasp out.  
A pale face, with long black hair and a stern look was in front of her... Half of his face a pitiful ruin of scars. Pox marks, twisting his flesh painfully, but they were not quite as hard to look upon. She was uses to scars.  
And his look.  _This_ _one_ _is_ _thirsty_ _for_ _blood_ _,_ she could tell. How could she not see it? She had seen the same look in another's scarred face, years before, and she had feared that look more than the deformity that accompanied them.  _Look_ _at_ _me_ _!_ A voice from her past barked, and so she watched, and she was not afraid.  
"Lady Stark" Richard Horpe said, and he bowed. "We meet at last"

  


Sansa solar was quiet when she and the knight were left alone there. Sansa's heart was beating frantically in her ribcage, and she felt like she might faint. She let him not see, however, that she was uneasy. She had learned to wear her armour, and to slip inside it again was so easy it almost scared her.  
"Please, be seated" she said politely to the man.   
He smiled, and it seemed almost unnatural. He was not a man that smiled often, she could tell. He sat down on one of the chairs, and Sansa did the same. "We were expecting you, ser" she began. "How was the King when you left him?".  
"The King is well" Horpe said. "His burdens are many, but he bears them well, as fit for a king".  
"I am pleased to hear it. And Ser Davos?" she inquired.  
"He is in good health as well" he said. "The king has sent him to East watch to command his legions there".  
"I am sure he will prove equal to the task" Sansa said. "He is a good man, and he serves the King well".  
His lips curved again, but she thought it was with irony. "Yes, he is a loyal servant" he agreed. "We all serve him at the best of our capacities".  
"I cannot doubt it" Sansa said politely. "I have heard tales of your bravery in battle, ser. I know the King values your courage".  
"He does" he nodded.  
 _What_ _would_ _Sandor_ _Clegane_ _tell_ _him_ _,_ _were_ _he_ _here_ _?,_ she wondered, for she did not know what to address him.  _He_ _would_ _probably_ _be_ _blunt_ _and_ _ask_ _him_ _what_ _he_ _wants_ _,_ _but_ _he_ _is_ _a_ _warrior_ _,_ _and_ _I_ _am_ _only_ _a_ _lady_ _._  
But she wanted to be brave, just like her sworn shield. "The Starks honour their king as well" she said then. "And we are honoured to have you here as a guest. Might I inquire - what is the purpose of your visit here, Ser Richard?".  
She knew he had done the right thing when his smile appeared again, this time more sincere. "It is the King's wish that I should stay here. The war is not done, Lady Stark, and the king does not want to leave his allies at the mercy of the enemy. Were things to turn for the worse, he feels that my presence here would be of help".  
"And I thank him for his solicitude - and for yours" Sansa smiled. "Your assistance is not unwelcome in such a time. We are all in need of assistance".  
Richard Horpe looked at her intently. "I had heard of you as well" he said. "Tales of your beauty had reached all of the Seven Kingdoms, friends and foes".  
Sansa blushed. "You are most courteous, ser" she answered.  
"I am not a courteous man, my lady, as you might have noticed. I only speak the truth".  
 _A_ _Hound_ _will_ _die_ _for_ _you_ _,_ _but_ _he_ _will_ _never_ _lie_ _to you_ _._ Sansa was struck by how much this man resembled her friend.  _He_ _is_ _just_ _like_ _the_ _Hound_ _,_ she thought.  _But_ _how_ _much_ _so_ _?_  
"No, I can see you are not that kind of man" she remarked.  _I_ _will_ _say_ _the_ _truth_ _._ _For_ _a_ _man_ _like_ _him_ _,_ _it_ _will_ _work_ _better_ _than_ _empty_ _chirpings_ _._  
"And what kind of a man would you say I am?".  
"A fighter" she answered, without hesitation.  
"Just so" ser Horpe laughed. "I am a warrior. I am good at it, too". He was not boasting. She could tell. Only a swordsman would be so confident, and straightforward.  
"I don't doubt it. I can see you, ser Horpe. You like to fight, and to kill".  
He seemed pleased. "I do. I like to test myself, to prove I can survive".  
"And you can" Sansa stated.  
"And I can" he confirmed. He observed her intently. "You have steel in you as well".  
Sansa smiled sweetly. "I can survive as well, ser Horpe. I have learned how".  
"I see you have" he acknowledged. " _Winter_ _is_ _coming_ _,_ aren't those your words?".  
"Winter has come already. And Starks know how to welcome winter".  
Horpe laughed.

  


Sansa had never been so relieved to be back in her rooms, and ready to go to bed. It had been a trying day, and she was perturbed by what had passed between her and Richard Horpe.  
 _It_ _has_ _not_ _been_ _as_ _hard_ _as_ _I_ _thought_ _it_ _would_ _be_ _,_ she meditated.  _I_ _know_ _how_ _to_ _deal_ _with_ _men_ _like_ _him_ _._ And Horpe had been quite pleasant in his own way.  _He really_ _does_ _look_ _like_ _Sandor_ _Clegane_ _,_ she thought. His grim look, the one a seasoned warrior could have. His appearance as well.  
As she slipped under her covers, she remembered that Sandor had asked her about the knight before his departure. He had seemed strange, and she had not known why, but now she could.  _Perhaps_ _he_ _saw_ _a_ _resemblance_ _too_ _._  Well, who wouldn't?   
Of course, the two men were not the same. Being on the Quiet Isle had gentled Sandor's rage, a bit at least. Sandor Clegane had been a bitter man, had been the Hound, but he was kinder now.  _And_ _he_ _cares_ _about_ _me_ _,_ _and_ _he_ _protects_ _me_ _._   _He_ _is_ _my_ _friend_ _._  
And Richard Horpe was a  _knight_ , unlike him. He bore no hatred for an evil brother, he didn't despise the court, or the courtesies, in spite of his honesty. He was not  _angry_ _,_ most of all. Only a warrior who killed well for his king.  
She wondered what his goals were. She believed him when he said that he served the King, she believed him to be loyal. But that was the point - what could his goals be? What could a servant wish, aside from his master's ambitions? She had no clue.  
 _Well_ _,_ _what_ _are_ _Sandor's_ _goals_ _?_  she thought, and frowned when she realised she didn't know. He served the Starks, and did it well, but it could not be all, could it?  
 _I_ _am_ _your_ _dog_ _._ He had told her so, had given her his life to use as she pleased. But if his life had no value for him, what had?  
 _He_ _protects_ _me_ _._ _He_ _wants_ _me_ _and_ _Rickon_ _safe_ _._ Of  _that_ she was sure.  The naive girl she had once been would have fancied him... Would have considered him being in love with her. She would have gone back to the day of the Blackwater, and remembered that he had kissed her. Alayne had. But of course, she was grown now, and she knew better. He had kissed her because he was drunk, and afraid, nothing more. Since he had come for her, he had been nothing more than a protector, a good protector.  
 _And_ _he_ _has_ _Kerra_ _._ Though he didn't like to be asked about her. Sansa would not have known that they had - been together, if Kerra had not told her. Maybe it was because he was in love with the spearwife.  _She_ _is_ beautiful,  _after_ _all_ _,_ she thought.  _And_ _she_ _is_ _hard_ _._ She  _has_ _steel_ _,_ _true_ _steel_ _in_ _her_ _._  
Sansa laid on her back, looking at the ceiling, dissatisfied.  _I_ _had_ _promised_ _myself_ _I_ _would_ _know_ _him_ _better_. Sandor Clegane was still a mystery to her.  
 _I_ _do_ _not_ _know_ _him_ _._ _I_ _do_ _not_ _understand_ _him_ _._ _How_ _comes_ _such_ _an_ _honest_ _man_ _is_ _so_ _unreadable_ _to_ _me_ _?_  
It did no good to dwell on it, however. And it only made her nervous, for he was not there.  _I_ _hope_ _he_ _is_ _well_ _,_ she mused to himself, biting her lip.  _I_ _hope_ _he_ _will_ _come_ _soon_ _._  
She had kept his letter, and she had read it again and again the day before.  _I_ _will_ _come_ _back_ _,_ he had assured her. It had been kind of him to write to her. He had promised he would come. Somehow, she could not believe he wouldn't.  
 _He_ _will_ _come_ _,_ she assured herself, as she drifted into sleep.  _I_ _pray_ _he_ _does_ _._

  


She dreamed of a night of green fire and fear. Flames were dancinng high, reaching for the dark sky, and they were beautiful and frightening. They smelled of burned flesh and blood and tears and wine.  _He_ smelled of wine as he pushed her down on the bed, and Sansa wasn't afraid. She had dreamed that dream too many times.  
She looked at his helm, a snarling dog of steel snarling at her, but something was wrong. Its eyes were lit with green flames as well, and she reached for it, to free him, to save him from burning. The helm feel, and Richard Horpe smiled a dead smile, and put a knife at her throat.  _Can_ _you_ _survive_ this _?_ He asked her, but she could not speak, she was too afraid. She sank into her mattress, trying to escape him, but the bed had turned to snow, and the snow was swallowing her.  
 _Winter_ _is_ _coming_ _,_ Horpe laughed, and he was laughing at her, and Sansa was screaming. The snow was cold, and among it she saw a hand, big and calloused, and she reached for it, but it was frozen, lifeless.  
She awoke covered in sweat, muffling a scream in her pillow. The room was dark and quiet, and she was alone. There were no flames, aside from those dying inside her hearth.   
It was stupid, and childlish, but she felt alone, despite the fact that she was home, with Rickon, with her friends. She felt empty, for the dawn would come, and she would have to face Richard Horpe, and she had no place to hide.   
So she cried herself back to sleep.

  


Richard Horpe could hardly remember the last time had had walk with a fair maiden leaning on his arms. Perhaps it was a first. He might have escorted the queen here or there, but she could scarcely be called a  _fair_ _maid_ _,_ since her mustache was thicker than his.   
It was pleasant, and when he realised it, he was surprised.  _Sansa_ _Stark_ herself had surprised him.  
She was indeed beautiful, for a start. Not pretty - there were plenty of pretty girls around, lowborn or highborn. No, she was truly beautiful, and she was uncommonly refined and elegant. She smiled sweetly, smelled sweetly, talked sweetly.  
 _And_ _still_ _,_ _she_ _is_ _not_ _a_ _foolish_ _child_ _._ He had noticed it straight away, when she had looked at him, unimpressed by his scars. She was smart, he would wager from the little they had said to each other. Not that Horpe had need of a smart woman - but it was refreshing.  
He had come expecting to find Sansa Stark a good prize, a childlish little lady to woo and win with a few sweet words and the King's interference. This lady was a wolf though, dangerous even. Strangely, he wasn't displeased at the discovery.  
 _She_ _will_ _be_ _a_ _good_ _wife_ _,_ he said to himself. Horpe had never cared for marriage and women, except for a few visits to a brothel. He liked to fight, liked to kill, liked gold too, though not so much.  
 _If_ _I_ _can_ _win_ _her_ _,_ _I_ _will_ _have_ _plenty_ _of_ _it_ _,_ he thought. He would rise far above his station, just like that bastard Littlefinger.  _And_ _if_ _I_ _get_ _a_ _pretty_ _loving_ _wife_ _,_ _well_ _,_ _I_ _won't_ _complain_ _._  
Truth be told, Stannis did not expect him to succeed. The girl had to marry, that much was certain.  
For her to marry a great lord from the Stormlands would be madness, and would alienate her the north. Stannis didn't like the idea of Sansa Stark with a Northerner, however.  _She_ _might_ _start_ _to_ _consider_ _herself_ _like_ _a_ _Queen_ _,_ _and_ _Stannis_ _won't_ _have_ _any_ _of_ _that_ _._  
But a knight, loyal to the king's cause, known to care nothing for politics... Well, it would not be a bad thing, would it?  
They stopped by the Heart Tree, crying red sop. Horpe regarded it with mild curiosity. He had never cared for the Gods, be it Rh'llor or the Seven.  
"It is the first time I come to a Godswood" he said.  
Sansa Stark looked at him, and smiled. "It is certainly an uncommon thing south of the Neck" she said. "But it is a quiet place, and my ancestors worshipped the Old Gods".  
"And you don't?".  
The girl smiled again, wearily. "I respect their faith" she told him.  
"Have you settled for the Red God, then?".  
"I don't know much of that Faith" lady Stark said. "I cannot believe in a God I don't know".  
 _She_ _is_ _bold_ _to_ _say_ _it_ _to_ _a_ _kingsman_ _,_ Horpe considered.  _But_ _she_ _chooses_ _her_ _words_ _well_ _._  
"I thought women were generally inclined to be pious" he said, with a smirk.  
"I had a septa when I was young. My mother believed in the Seven". She caressed the white cork, fondly. "Joffrey put her head on a spike" she said, calmly, as if she didn't care.  
"The Lannister brat was as mad as her mother, I hear".  
"He was. And now he is dead".  
"His brother sits on the Throne, though. Born of incest, same as him".  
"Tommen is nothing like his brother" she said, and her blue eyes rested on him. She seemed to challenge him to call her treacherous. "He was a sweet boy, and I hope the king will show him mercy".  
"You speak as if we were certain to win".  
"Nothing is sure" Sansa said. "But the Lannisters are not loved. They cannot hope to last forever, now that Tywin is dead".  
 _She_ _does_ _have_ _a_ _brain_ _,_ _this_ _one_ _._ "Stannis is not loved, either".  
She smiled. "But he is just. To be loved is good, but to be respected is much better. His justice is well known".  
 _He_ _is_ _just_ _,_ Horpe agreed.  _He_ _was_ _,_ _before_ _the_ _Red_ _Woman_ _came_ _._ Horpe was loyal to his king, but he wasn't blind. "This place is indeed peaceful" he said. He was not a man that liked to spend his time in idle chatting, but the girl was fascinating. He didn't mind much.  
"It is" Sansa Stark said, and smiled at him. It wasn't a fake smile.  
Richard Horpe didn't find it hard to smile back.

  


Bloody storms, Sandor cursed silently, as Stranger huffed and made its way through the snow.   
Had it been summer, with only a thin layer of frost on the roads and almost none in the woods, covering the distance between Deepwood Motte and Winterfell would have taken two days of restless ride, three with a very bad horse. Winter, however, was another matter. It meant piles of frozen snow as high as a man’s, maybe a little less on the kingsroad. When Stannis had lead an army, marching against Winterfell, it had been an endless journey of weeks and weeks.   
Sandor had chosen the other option, chosen narrow paths than only a man alone or with only a few companions could tread. Where the forest was deepest, there was not half the snow that covered the North anywhere else – those same paths he had followed with the hunting party, in and out of the wood, stopping every day in one of the small villages nearby.   
The fact was, he was late. He had left three weeks before, travelled for days, and would have departed more than a week earlier. Instead, the weather had not allowed him to stir from his own castle, and the ravens he had sent to the little bird, explaining the delay, had never returned. Dead, most like.   
Sandor didn’t want the girl to wait for him in anxiety. He wanted her to feel safe, and safe because of him. He had been gone from her side too long last time, and he had sworn to himself that it would never happen again.   
 _The Others take this blasted storm. I should not have left. Not when Thorpe was supposed to come._  
Yet he had things to do, and duties he could not avoid or ignore. He had told himself he would not miss her, not for a few days, but of course he had been wrong. It seemed that every time he detached himself from her, the emptiness inside him increased, and Sandor could not explain it to himself.   
The Gods knew he was not a romantic man, or a sensitive one. How had the girl managed it? what sort of spell, of treachery, could rob him of all his weapons, break the hard shell that had formed around his heart?   
 _She kissed me, damn her._  
That was what had made it harder still. A quick, sweet kiss that had landed on his good cheek, the feeling of it still nestled on his skin, where she had touched him with her soft lips. How could a man hope to heal from love, if she reopened his wound with a look, a sparkle in her blue eyes, a pretty blush on her fair cheeks, a bashful giggle at one of his rough japes, or a kiss?   
Sandor, she called him now. No more sers, or my lords, not  when they were alone. Sandor, only Sandor.  
And so he had decided to tell her.   
He would go back to her, and she would welcome him with a smile, the prettiest of smiles. He knew she cared for him, though not the way he cared for  _her_ _._ He would wait to be alone with her, and then be would speak.  
He knew she would not return his love. Why would she? But he could not imagine her to resent him for what he felt, for she didn't have that sort of pride.  _She_ _will_ _be_ _kind_ _and_ _proper_ _._ He would tell her that he loved her, because he was not a man that could lie, not for long, not to  _her_ _._ He could not have her pretty and unaware around him, smiling and chirping, kissing him as if he was not a man with warm blood and raging needs.   
He would tell Sansa Stark that he was just as foolish as she was. He would tell her that he wanted her, that he needed her, that he was, in short, lost.

Sometimes he believed she knew already. How could she not have noticed the fire he had inside him? Could she not see that he had eyes for her only? She must know that he could be kind to her,and to her only. Yet, most of the times, she seemed to suspect nothing, as if his behaviour to her was the most natural thing in the world.    
 _If_ _she_ _doesn't_ _know_ _,_ _she_ _will_ _soon_ _enough_ _._ But first, he would go back to her. He had promised her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This time I was quick. *claps herself* I'm back with some MAJOR plot twists. I hope you like that!  
> Thank you all for the feedback, guys ;)

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know if you like this - feedbacks are veeery much appreciated ;)


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